


People Help the People

by rainycliff213



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Canon Compliant, Coping, Depression, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Healing, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Romance, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan Manga Spoilers, Slow Burn, Smut, Trauma, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:28:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 48,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29348949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainycliff213/pseuds/rainycliff213
Summary: The war for humanity had ended. They had won. The death and destruction was over, at least physically.Killing the one person she loved most in life left Mikasa Ackerman utterly destroyed, leaving her truly alone in the world. While the rest of the world rebuilds, she and the rest of the Scouts only begin to confront their mental barriers.War may be full of anguish, but peace is deceptively comforting, bringing forth only what was ignored as they fought for their lives. For Mikasa, it is attempting to understand what she thought was Eren's betrayal, and learning to heal once and for all. For Jean, it is forgetting the blood on his hands and searching for a new path in life. Perhaps they can help each other.AOT Manga spoilers. Jeankasa - centric. You have been warned. Post-canon.
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Annie Leonhart, Mikasa Ackerman & Jean Kirstein, Mikasa Ackerman/Eren Yeager, Mikasa Ackerman/Jean Kirstein
Comments: 201
Kudos: 296





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic, so please leave comments! I have always thought that Jean and Mikasa were good together, and coupled with the recent events in the manga, I came up with this. Beware of typos!
> 
> I also wanted to note that I actually like Eren and Historia together. in no way am I blaming them. but remember, this is from the perspective of the scouts, who were kept from their plans and almost died because of them, so they are obviously upset (not at their relationship, but because of their secrets). I apologize if I was unsuccessful in communicating that idea. Later down the line their perspectives will be explored more, don't worry! If it comes across the wrong way I will be sure to go back and make it clear that Mikasa does not blame them -- she is just genuinely upset.

Chapter 1

_Her hands trembled, her blades almost slipping out of her fingers. Screams in the background were muffled by the sound of her heart in her chest, her vision blurred by the steam from the withering colossal titans and her tears. He was immobile, sitting and leaning back against the tree as if he was about to take a nap. Body unharmed, but viridian eyes dim._

_“It’s the end.”_

_He looked up at her, unphased by the now free-flowing tears from her eyes._

_“Please, Eren. I can’t do this. You know I can’t!”_

_He reached out a tan hand, grasping one of her blades tightly, the blood already marring the silver metal, bringing it to his throat._

_“You can.”_

_She closed her eyes, gut-wrenching cries convulsing her body, attempting to shakily pull the blade away, but he kept it at his neck, drops of blood slipping down his skin._

_“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you. I always did.”_

_Her eyes cracked open, trying to look at him one last time. He held her stare, a small smile gracing his lips for only a moment, and she was unsure whether or not she imagined it._

_“Do it now, Mikasa”_

_There was no other way. The tears fell harder and faster, if that was somehow possible. This was then end. It was as if the death and destruction around them had dissipated. It was only them, in that moment, no Rumbling, no fighting behind them. Just her and the boy that had saved her ten years ago. The one that she was destined to kill. She chose, in that moment, for her own sanity, to remember everything good, before the world was against them, before the Colossal broken Wall Rose and before they were soldiers. She smiled, lip quivering._

_“See you later, Eren.”_

Mikasa woke up gasping for air, heart pounding and face drenched from crying in her sleep. Her lungs contracted and expanded, violently trying to rip oxygen from the air.

_Just a dream just a dream just a dream._

Except it wasn’t. It was a memory now, only weeks old. It was as if her brain was constantly reminding her that she had killed Eren, as if she could ever in her life forget. How ironic that she had protected him for a decade, upheld Carla's promise, only to end up being the one to end his life. 

Panic surged through her veins as the modest room around her disappeared, the battlefield emerging again as if she had been transported back to that moment. The air so red it appeared to have been stained with blood, permeated with the smell of burning flesh as the landscape was trampled beneath the Rumbling. She almost feel the way her blade had sliced through his throat again.

 _Breath. In. Out. In. Out._ Just like Hange had taught her back in the Survey Corp when Eren and Armin had yet again embarked on a reckless plan.

Her heart steadied, but her escaping panic did nothing to heal it. It should have been her. He was doing this all for them, right? Even after all he had done. Armin was gone too. If them why not her too? Whey did she have to be left alone? The one thing she had feared all these years. Death would have been a mercy. But life wanted to keep her tortured, reliving the same moment over and over just to return back to a world without her family. 

Mikasa let her head fall against the wood of the wall, pushing off the thin white sheets from her sweat-soaked body. The thin streams of light from the window indicated it was just past day break – a time that normally would have been bustling in the Survey Corp based, but there was no one left anymore. The Scouting Legion had long died, dwindled down to only Connie, Jean, Levi, and herself. Gabi, Annie, and Falco had chosen to stay in Liberio while they returned to Paradis. Unfortunately for them, stopping Eren from destroying the world had been considered the highest of treasons by the Yeargerists, so they were left to hole up in the old base, helped only by a few remaining sympathetic connections Levi had garnered. It had only rubbed salt in the wound. She really was a traitor, even if she had wanted to stop Eren. Maybe she should just turn herself in. What would they say to her? What would they do to her? She internally scoffed. Nothing worse than she would do to herself. 

She pushed herself out of bed, heading for the showers. Levi would never let her do that, as if he were finally acting like her relative. For some reason, they cared about her. Although she initially had no motivation to clean herself, preferring to wallow and collect dust and grief in the confines of her bed, Levi had been less excited about the idea. The captain had practically dragged her into the showers, clothes and all, leaving her in the freezing water and locking the door while yelling that she was an embarrassment to every Ackerman before her. It was then that she discovered the pounding of the water was a great device for hiding her sobs, and the was effective in numbing her, at least physically. She hoped Levi and the others had decided that she had a newfound passion for cleanliness.

This instance was exactly like the rest. She dropped her clean clothes onto the floor in the corner, stripped, then proceeded to turn on the water, not bothering to adjust the temperature since it never rose to bearable temperatures anyways, then sat on the floor and cried. So much that she wasn’t sure how much water was from the showerhead and how much was from her eyes. Eventually, soap would find its way into her cropped hair and across her pale skin, before she again repeated to fall and curl up on the tile, at least until the suds had cleared.

Her time was spent contemplating anything and everything -- mainly Eren and Armin. Every happy memory of their childhood was proceeded with the horror of watching them die, unable to do anything at all. She missed them. Loved them. Still loved them. Even Eren, after everything he had done. She had always known that she could live without them, that she would endeavor to carry on their memories, but it was so much harder than she had ever imagined. Being alone was a new kind of heartbreak.

That day’s shower she believed to be around thirty or so minutes. They had gotten longer over the course of the week, as if the grief was building up rather than fading. She hoped her eyes weren’t too red. Apparently, they had someone important to see that day, so she opted for the cleanest white shirt and dark pants she could find, less to look presentable and more to avoid Levi’s criticism.

She stepped into the hall, hair still dripping onto her shoulders, bumping into a tall figure. She looked up.

“Oh, sorry Mikasa. I didn’t see you.”

Jean had been heading down the hall, too deeply invested in reading a paper in his hand to avoid colliding with her. He was dressed in a clean, pressed shirt and slacks. 

She tried to offer him a small smile, but it looked more like a grimace. “It’s okay.”

Jean had been unusually distant from her since they had arrived back. His eyes were strained. Like they were full of hurt. All she could see in them was pity. Pity that she had lost so much, yet she didn’t deserve it because she had brought it all on herself. The silence was thick as they stood, her gaze dropping to examine the floorboards, hoping he hadn’t seen the redness in her eyes.

Jean averted his gaze, fidgeting with the corner of his paper. “I was heading to the kitchen then to Levi’s office. Wanted to grab something to eat before we head out.”

She nodded. Her shower was longer than she thought – they were due to leave at seven that morning.

“Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

She diverted from Jean’s path down the hall, quickly heading toward her room, hoping to avoid his questions and looking at those damn eyes. She didn’t see the way he paused before walking away, wrestling with the parts of him that wished to chase after her and the parts of him that wanted to let her go, forever.

Mikasa stepped out of the small carriage after Connie, gripping her hat so it would not fly away as the wind whipped her bangs across her face. The sun was just beginning to fall, illuminating the green, sprawling fields.

They had made the long journey to the Reiss farms that morning through afternoon. Levi had informed them that Historia had been blessed with a daughter and had requested that the remainder of the Survey Corp visit her officially. This was important for them, both to support their friend and former comrade, but also to hopefully receive pardoning and immunity – as evidenced by the heavy satchel of paperwork Connie was lugging across his shoulder. This was the last step, the final push to freeing them from the past, hopefully giving them an opportunity to move on with their lives. Hypothetically, of course.

Despite her inner turmoil, something about this scenery had brought her peace. The rolling fields, speckled with the forms of playing children from the orphanage, their laughs carefree and joyous. It was simple. Tranquil. A cruel mirage of the life she wanted, and now could have, but was now meaningless without two key pieces. She pushed her thoughts aside. She needed to be strong in front of her queen.  
They trekked the graveled path to the humble wooden house, a porch wrapped around the exterior, Historia’s form giving them a small wave from the railing as they approached.

Mikasa observed the queen as she climbed up the stairs. She had visibly aged, her hair longer and her form ample, evidence of her recent childbirth. Yet she looked inexplicably sad. Depressed. As Historia met them and ushered them inside, offering a small smile, Mikasa noticed that the new mother could not meet her in the eye. She couldn’t understand why. Did she feel pity for her too, for losing Eren? Would she have to suffer through stares like that for the rest of her life? Mikasa frowned. Historia had left the war years ago when she had assumed the position of queen, able to shape her life as she wanted it, and she had done an incredible job in running the orphanage for her people. Perhaps Eren, Armin, and the others had a more of an impact that Mikasa had suspected. The blonde girl looked over her shoulder.

“I’m… I’m glad you all have come. And I’m sorry… about Eren. Eren and the others.”  
They proceeded to enter the home, warm and decorated modestly. Connie handed Mikasa the bag of paperwork in order to slip off his jacket, the house too warm. She shouldered it, taking off her hat and setting it on a hook by the door.

“You’ve done well out here, your majesty. The kids seem happy. And of course, we offer our congratulations for your daughter,” Levi said, seeming genuine.

Historia turned, wiping her palms on the shirt of her tan dress. Her eyes still avoided Mikasa. “Thank you. And please. Drop the formalities you are all--” she finally turned to Mikasa, eyes wet and her smile small, “my friends, no matter what.”

Mikasa opened her mouth to ask what she meant, but a loud wail of a baby stopped her.

Historia rushed into the room over. “I’m sorry, one moment.”

Mikasa gripped the strap of the bag tightly, feeling uneasy. Something was off. She looked over to her comrades, who did not share her discomfort. Connie was messing with his tie, Jean bumbling to leave it alone, while Levi gazed out the window into the field. She shivered. They were to stay the night here, in comfortable beds, but for some reason she couldn’t wait to leave.

Historia returned to the living room, clutching a wrapped bundle emitting soft coos. 

“Before we discuss your immunity, I want you to meet my daughter, Ymir.” 

The remorse that Mikasa had observed before was absent, replaced by a smile as she gazed at her daughter, determination and love in her eyes. She began to turn the baby toward them, so her little face would be toward the visitors –

Mikasa dropped the bag to the floor, a loud bang reverberating to the room. The baby began to fuss.

She would recognize those eyes anywhere. She saw them filled with hope for years. She saw the life drain out of them. No. It couldn’t be. No. How. It made no sense. She must be wrong she must be wrong.

Everyone had turned toward her. She hadn’t even noticed the tears slipping from her eyes. The look in Historia’s eyes told her everything, their simultaneous guilt and sadness. Levi, Jean, and Connie were facing her, eyes wide. She could tell they were thinking the same.

“Historia.” Her voice cracked. “Please tell me it’s not what I think.”

The young mother clutched the now crying baby close to her heart. “Mikasa.” A tear slipped from one of her eyes. “This child will grow up fatherless…”

“Who?!” Her voice was raspy now, hand clutching at her collar, looking for something that was no longer there, backing up into the wall behind her, trying to run away. “Who is the father?”

Historia remained silent, eyes still boring into Mikasa’s, both of the young women crying.

Levi reached out a hand toward his cousin. “Calm down, Ackerman, you’ll –”

She swatted him away. "No... I deserve to know. I deserve to fucking know.”

Historia rocked her baby, eyes falling from Mikasa's trembling form. “It’s Eren. Eren is the father.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Mikasa froze. She didn’t even need to hear the answer. She already knew the obvious. Those green eyes were enough. Yet somehow, hearing it spoken aloud made it more real than it already was. The fingernails in her left hand had dug into her palm, breaking the skin in crescent shaped pattern. The other dropped from her neck, no longer searching for that red piece of fabric. The tears couldn’t not stop flowing, yet she laughed. Why did life insist on punishing her so relentlessly? She had always told herself that all she needed was to be by his side, but now that she knew... maybe she had really wanted more.

Levi moved closer, reaching for her shoulder, but she dodged, dashing out their door and wiping at her eyes. She did not know where she was going, but she needed to be anywhere but there, anywhere but that suffocating room that only reminded her of what she had long denied. She was sprinting now. She needed to be away. Away from that house. Away from that damn baby, its wails chasing after her.

Her thoughts were confined to Eren, yet again. Why did this hurt more? More than losing him, more than killing him? She felt irrational, guilty. The fact that she did not hold the same position in his life as he did in hers. That he could have loved someone else. That he couldn’t even tell her. That she had put her life on the line so many times for him just to be ripped from her, leaving in his wake a family that didn’t include her, that never would have. Even worse, that she had left that child without a parent, ripped away half of the love deserved by an innocent baby. Historia should despise her... and Eren...

_I’ve always hated you._

Maybe he did.

Jean scowled, ignoring the queen and immediately heading after Mikasa. Levi blocked him with an outstretched arm into his chest, halting his pursuit.

“Kirstein. Back down.”

“But Captain –” 

“Shut it. You’lll only make things worse.” He dropped his arm, turning back to Historia as she tried to calm down her crying daughter. The look in her eyes was unreadable, but she couldn’t meet the eyes of her former captain.

“Your majesty. I mean no disrespect, but what did you seriously intend to accomplish by inviting her here.”

Her eyes remained on the child, lips in a grimace. “It was so hard, you know," she whispered

Jean and Connie looked at each other, confused at her insinuation.

“You know how hard it was to hide that secret? To live with myself knowing that the world would be destroyed?” Tears fell violently from her eyes now, her heading tucked toward the blanket wrapped around her baby, clutching it as if it were her last hold on sanity. “My daughter will grow up fatherless, a product of destruction, and all I wanted was to pardon you, despite it all. Paradis was at risk!”

Levi’s good eye widened. “You knew.” He stepped toward her, form imposing with the eyepatch and scars menacing. “You knew about Eren’s plan. Yet you said nothing?”

She frowned at him, gazing through her tears. “It was our only hope. Our only hope for freedom. The only way to ensure Paradis would be safe. The world would never accept us. I had to do what I needed to do as queen... no matter how much it hurt me.”

Connie grimaced, turning away from the scene. Jean’s face was pained, his fists leaning against the wall, long having looked away. To keep a secret like that... he couldn't help but admire her mental strength among his horror that she had been in on Eren's plan.

“Tsk. You know nothing, your majesty.” The captain’s words were cold. “You’ve seen the kids from the Underground, at the orphanage. You know of the cruelty down there. Humans can always be bad people. All of us. Even against those who aren’t the enemy. Kenny. Erwin. Eren. How many people died for their cause? Lost their freedom to achieve someone else’s? Orphans out there, in the world, that did nothing wrong except live on the wrong side of the walls? How much did we fight for him just to be betrayed?”

Historia opened her mouth to speak, eyes pained.

“I’m not finished, your majesty. It doesn't matter whether you loved him or not, nor how many of us believed in him. Killed for him. Eren never could have brought us freedom. Never could have given us peace, no matter how much of the world he decided to piss on. Conflict never ends. The walls aren’t just physical. Hatred is not isolated to opposing sides in a war, it is in every one of us. When one side wins, it doesn’t achieve peace. The cycle only continues, the victors looking for an enemy amongst themselves, breaking down until its brother against brother. Speak of peace to the Yeagerists that wish to hunt us down, to kill anyone who may have ever considered the irrational thought that mindless genocide isn’t the answer. Speak of peace to our dead comrades. Speak of peace to the girl that had to kill the one person she had ever lived for, to save people she had never met.”

The queen blinked back her tears, gaze downcast to the floor. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just wanted what was best for my people. The best for my daughter… for her to grow up with the family and love I never had. I never meant to hurt you all.”

Levi nodded. “And she will. She has a mother who loves her very dearly. So love her, don’t look back on what could have been. You and Eren... I don't care for the details. We will always be here for you, as your allies, even Mikasa... you may not owe her much, but I think it would be best to offer up an explanation. Not today, not tomorrow, but eventually. Neither I nor she can blame you for your relationship with him -- it is neither of your crimes. But, by the Walls, don’t tell me it was for peace…. Even if the physical fighting stops, we have each have our own battles.”

He didn’t wait to hear her response, turning instead to Connie and Jean, both of them speechless and enthralled by those words, and how much they had personified what they had felt.

The captain sighed. “Ackerman’s probably long gone by now.”

“Connie and I will go find her,” Jean said determined. “She couldn’t be that far, and –”

“Woah woah woah, Jean. Did you see how scary she looked? There is no way in hell I would even think about –”

Levi waved a hand, silencing them. “Tsk. Brats. You wouldn’t stand a choice.” He shrugged off his coat, left in only a white collared shirt. “I’m going after her. You two stay here and get the overnight bags from the carriage.”

Jean reluctantly nodded, while Connie looked visibly relieved, wiping the sweat of stress off of his brow. Levi headed out the front door.

“If I’m not back in an hour, assume I’m dead. Split my belongings amongst yourselves.”

Connie’s jaw dropped, Jean gulped, eyes downcast. This was supposed to be a leisurely trip, one to relax while also finally cleaning their names. He didn’t know how to feel about the father being Eren. It's not as if they could control who they loved, but that it had been in secret was alarming. A part of him always new Mikasa's love would never be returned. Yet she had seemed satisfied, just being by his side, until now. His fifteen year old self would have laughed at the situation. Now’s your chance. But now…he had never seen so much hurt in Mikasa’s eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at her for more than a moment anymore… The same girl that was worth a hundred soldiers, that could go toe-to-toe with dozens of pure titans or a shifter, throwing herself on the frontline to survive. Dammit Yeager. He knew how talented he was at hurting Mikasa, but he never thought it would extend so far beyond the grave. Did he even understand how much she loved him? Could he not have said anything to her? 

Whether it was his keen intuition that led him to that thatch of woods, or whether she had left a palpable trail of bloodlust and despair, Levi had ended up finding the girl. She was sitting against a tree, knees curled to her chest, bloody knuckles wrapped around her downcast head. The oak behind her had been a poor victim to her rage, a dent evident in its thick bark. Mikasa glanced up as she heard him approach, revealing red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks.

“Go away, Captain.” 

He made a noise of disaproval, ignoring her order and moving to stand directly in front of her. “That’s no way to speak to your superior.” She refused to look up even at his words, only fisting her hair tighter.

“Tsk. Gloomy brat. Sitting and sulking accomplishes nothing.”

A pained laugh escaped her throat. “What is there to accomplish anymore? There’s no more war. I’m useless now. So just let me sit here and die in peace.”

Levi ignored those words, scared to render how much they applied to him, too. Just as she had lost Eren and Armin, he had lost Erwin and Hange. He missed them a lot, even the worst parts of them. What he wouldn’t give to take Erwin up on his reckless plans, or Hange on her abnormal experiments. The Ackerman genes were a blessing and a curse, when it was impossible to protect the people that matter the most. And now, without war, they had exhausted their purpose as weapons. But he wouldn’t let her sit here and waste away for the rest of her life, especially when the internal battles were just beginning.

The captain bent down, reaching underneath her arms to fist her collar, pulling her onto her knees incredibly easily, as if she were a limp doll. Her eyes were clamped shut, refusing to confront his gaze. Levi only rolled his eye. If she wouldn’t speak, he would have to resort to other options. He could tell she was angry and upset at her core, beneath the layer of despair – one that needed to be peeled away if she was ever to make it through the pain. She wanted to hurt something, whether it be herself or someone else. If she wouldn’t decide which, he would for her. He quietly sighed. _Just as his injuries had finished healing._

He pulled her collar harder, so that her back was straight and body taught, knees almost lifted off of the dirt. 

“Tsk. You look pretty kneeling like this, you know. Maybe if you had gotten on your knees for Eren, he would’ve chosen you over that blonde mi —” 

He didn’t get to finish. The next moment he was pinned down underneath her, staring up into wild grey eyes and getting throttled, just like when he had chosen to give the serum to Erwin in Shiganshina, all those years ago. He quelled his instincts to shove her off.

“SHUT UP. FUCK OFF. IT WAS NEVER ABOUT THAT. FUCK EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING.”

She punctuated every insult with her bloodied fists, screaming murderously and attacking his already mutilated face. He became her living punching bag – she threw punch after punch, knees digging into his sides, her yells half sobs and half screams. A particularly firm fist to his nose spewed blood across his face, but he wasn’t sure which wetness was his blood and which belonged to the tears that were dripping from her eyes onto his face. 

Her hands moved to his throat, and he could feel her body as it shook from sobs. She was attempting to strangle him, but her grip grew weak, rage fueled strength simmering down into pure desolation again. Cries raked her body, and her head fell down as she muttered incoherent phrases.

"You could never understand... I'm sorry I loved him... I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."

Levi used this opportunity to feel for a rock in the grass by his side, hoping that she was too occupied to notice his movements. When he felt the hardness beneath his palm, he reignited his strength and instincts, and just as she noticed his intentions and tilted her head back up, Levi pushed all his energy into slamming that rock onto her head, sending her into oblivion as she crumpled on top of him. 

He spit blood from his mouth into the grass. _Damn gloomy brat._ He would be sending the medical expenses to her account.

Jean’s hands gripped the porch railing tightly, knuckles white, while his foot tapped incessantly on the wood, much to Connie’s annoyance.

“Holy Walls, Jean. They’ll be fine. It’s the Captain and Mikasa, were talking about.”

Jean turned abruptly, facing the shorter man. “Exactly why we should be concerned. If anyone could kill them, it’d be themselves.”

Connie rolled his eyes. “Not sure why you even care so much. She’s never asked for help. I thought you let go of those feelings a while ago, Jean.”

The former soldier scoffed, turning back to his post on the railing. He wouldn’t respond to those assumptions. Was he really at fault for caring about his comrade. Well. Friend, now, if they could be called that. 

“Not back yet?”

Jean and Connie turned to the front door, recognizing Historia’s form as she exited the home, clutching two glasses of water. She handed it to them, offering as much of a smile as she could.

Connie thanked her, Jean gave a small nod, still unsure what to think of her. She had always been kind to them, even after she had taken up position as queen -- he couldn't abandon his affections for what on the surface was petty drama.

“I’m sorry that I have caused you all trouble. I… I know what I said earlier. But you all are my friends, truly. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I’m just scared for what’s to come… or maybe it’s the hormones.” She laughed, but the remorse was evident in her eyes.

Connie patted her shoulder, ensuring her that it was alright and that it had been a hard time for everyone. Jean cast his eyes down, turning back around to gaze out into the fields, searching for any indication of the Ackermans' arrival.

“Captain’s back!” Jean spotted Levi’s form walking toward them, the sunset behind him casting a dark silhouette. “But where’s Mikasa…” he paused, now noticing the distinctly human shaped form tossed across the captain’s shoulder. 

Levi reached them rather quickly, clambering up the stairs rather easily despite the weight he was carrying. He looked up at them, finally revealing the beating his countenance has undertaken.

Historia gasped, hand clutching her heart. “Captain, your face!”

The short man ignored the concern, dumping the lifeless form of the Ackerman girl onto the wood of the porch, proceeding to wipe away the blood that had begun to spew from his nose again. 

Connie handed the captain the glass of water Historia had given him. “What happened?”

Levi drained the glass, handing it back to his former soldier. Jean bent down gingerly, flipping the girl over to inspect the blood that was caked at the back of her head, dread quickly spreading over his face as he reached for her wrist in a panic, beginning to search for a pulse.

“She’s not dead Kirstein. Don’t be ridiculous.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket to dab at his nose. Historia was silent, gazing down at Mikasa’s limp form, guilt filling her eyes.  
“Why…”

The captain scoffed. “Brat needed something to beat up. She's sleep deprived, her brain's not working right, and on top of all that... Would’ve meant death for one of you, so I kindly offered myself up and took her out when she was finished. Your welcome.”

Jean flipped her over onto her back, his expression unreadable. He couldn’t argue that this was unnecessary. He swallowed before opening his mouth. “What do we do with her now? She’s going to wake up eventually.”

“Hm. She’ll be out for a while. It’ll do her good – I don’t think she’s slept more than a few hours since it all happened.” Levi turned toward Jean, meeting his eyes. “Pray she’s in a better mood when she wakes up, Kirstein. She can’t stay here, and it’s too late to try to head back to base. So congratulations on your impromptu promotion to babysitter.” He reached into his pant pocket, a black wallet emerging from it. He handed the money to Jean, confusion evident on the man’s face.

“What is this for?”

“Put two and two together, Jean. Connie and I will stay the night here as planned to finish the paperwork. You two head to Stohess. Stay at an inn and wait for us in the morning. And for the love of all things merciful, don’t let her hurt you or herself. Force feed her if you need to. Better yet, knock her out again. I don’t care. Just don’t be seen – her face is especially recognizable.”

Jean gulped and nodded, placing the wallet into his coat pocket. This Mikasa, this volatile and emotionally damaged beast, was a far cry from the battle-hardened soldier that he had met all those years ago. His fifteen year self would be ecstatic at the thought of spending a night with her. His nineteen year old self was absolutely petrified at the thought. Less that she would hurt him, but more that she would hurt herself. More that he would discover that he could never look at her the same again. He silently cursed Eren and Historia for inadvertently putting him in this position.

He internally sighed. There was no avoiding it anymore. He bent down to pick her up, a hand under her knees and another behind her soldiers, silently praying that he would make it through the night unscathed – physically and emotionally.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter talks about body dysmorphia and self-perception, so be warned! Keep in mind that she is just a teenager, so of course she is going to feel self conscious. And she does not understand Eren's intentions (yet lol), so naturally she is going to be upset and irrational because of it -- I just don't want people to think that she's obsessed or whatever. I think that's a common perception with her character, but I want to use this chapter to sort of open up the mind of a girl that's gone through a lot of trauma and war, leaving her now in a sort of vacuum. Also keep in mind she doesn't know that the Ackerman bloodline stuff isn't true, so she's lowkey in an identity crisis.

Chapter 2

_“Mommy, what’s this one called?”_

_The dark-haired woman smiled at her daughter, taking the purple flower from her small hands._

_“This is called chamomile, sweetheart. If you pick some more, we can make a special tea out of it.”_

_The little girl laughed and offered her mother a smile, revealing gaps in her small teeth. She turned back to the patch in the garden, gathering the long stems and placing them into her woven basket._

_“Ah! Your father is back! And it looks like dinner will be good tonight!”_

_Mikasa turned to see her tall father heading up the hill to their home, hand clutching a few plump ducks, the rusted gun slung against his back. He grinned as he approached them, thoroughly content to be able to come home to his healthy family with a promise of a delicious meal in tow._

_The girl waved at her father, standing up to bask in the warm sun, a cool breeze blowing through her long hair, threatening to whisk away her straw hat. The image of her father became clearer as he entered their front garden._

_Mikasa’s smile faltered, her eyes reaching the hand which clutched the birds by their throats. His hand was covered in dark blood. Had that just appeared? Or was it always there, purposefully ignored. “D-dad?”_

_She felt a pull at her shoulder, turning to see her mother crouched in front of her, eyes level with hers. Mikasa gasped and tried to pull away, seeing now that her dress had turned from stark white to now seeped with blood, emphasizing the pallor of her sickly skin. But her grip was deathly, digging into her skin. The girl was crying now, desperately attempting to wrench herself from her hands._

_“Mikasa…”_

_The shell of her mother, eyes blank and enshrouded in darkness, dragged her hands across her daughter’s face, painting her ivory skin with scarlet. She smiled gruesomely._

_“The world is cruel…”_

Mikasa gasped awake, eyes fluttering open as she sat up abruptly in the bed. She desperately tried to pull air from her lungs, hands clutching at her throbbing skull. She was terribly cold. Why was she thinking of them, after all these years?

A hand at her shoulder caused her to flinch, pulling into reality as she whipped up to see Jean’s worried face directly in front of her. She glanced around, not recognizing the tan walls, dark pine floors, and modest furniture, nor the softness of the bed unlike any barrack she had slept in.

“Hey, hey, calm down. It’s alright. We’re in a hotel in Stohess district.”

Her orbit around the space halted, and she turned back toward her comrade. The last thing she could remember was beating that old runt into a pulp before her – moved her fingers to the back of her skull, sure enough finding a welt and dried blood that had been the source of her headache.

Jean’s hand pulled away, moving to grab a glass and pill from the nightstand. “Here. I don’t think you’re concussed, but we can’t risk going to the doctor. This is a pain reliever.”

She accepted the offering, swallowing the small pill and chugging the glass to quench her dry mouth. It served to clear some of her remaining panic as well, and her confusion became replaced with annoyance. She had attacked her captain, sure, but they had no need to put her in a cage with a keeper, as if she couldn’t stay and be civil with –

Historia. That was right. Pain that wasn’t from her injury shot to her head and heart. She tried to push back her tears, tried not to think about it when she was in the presence of another. Mikasa met the concerned gaze of the ash blonde man. He appeared incredibly conflicted, perched on the edge of the bed as if the next moment he would bolt away or lean closer. 

“Connie and the captain stayed behind to finish all the political business. We’re to meet up with them in the morning.” He nodded back toward the back of the room, at a small sofa and table at the entrance. “I brought you some food. Your bag is here as well.”

Her eyes were stoic, dark circles increasingly gaunt under the dim glow of the gas lamp. Shadows cut into her cheeks, evidence of her lack of proper eating. “I’m not hungry.”

She pushed herself off of the bed, looking around until she sighted her brown leather bag resting against the dresser. “Where’s the bathroom? I need to shower.” She equally desired to rinse the blood out of her hair as she did wish for a cover to continue her crying.

Jean inclined his head toward the back wall. “Over there. I already showered. Water’s warmer than anything we ever got at base, so…” he rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of how to diffuse the awkwardness.

She nodded, promptly bending down to rummage through her belongings until she encountered a white, thin night gown. Not her preferential sleeping attire, but the only ones she could find in the barracks that weren’t old uniforms. She made her way to the bathroom door, opening it and locking herself inside without another word. Jean heard the shower water start.

He sighed, letting go of tension in his shoulder he wasn’t aware he was holding. Interacting with her had always been tense, whether it be from nervousness enticed by his feelings or the calculated, cold front that she never had seemed to let up. Except now, it was like tiptoeing across a minefield. An emotional, depressed, and utterly hurt minefield, who at any moment appeared as if she was teetering between the desire to kill someone and the desire to breakdown and cry. He could not blame her – first, being forced to kill Eren, and then having to find out that she never would hold then place in his heart that he held in hers – in fact, another was in her place. A wretched part of him through it was laughable. Sucks, doesn’t it? But he dismissed those feelings readily. He had not survived a war, lost friends and risked his life, just to be petty. 

Jean found himself sitting on the navy sofa, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. It was comfortable enough. He had already decided that she would take the bed, as big as it was – he doubt she would sleep a wink, but the thought of her getting a decently soft mattress after the day’s events made him feel better. He would take the sofa, even if his lanky form guaranteed his legs would be hanging off of the edge. Hopefully she would be so kind as to spare him a down pillow. Maybe there was a spare blanket in the dresser, too. 

Bringing up his hands to rub at his temples, he leaned forward, already feeling a headache of stress begin to beat down on his skull. He eyed the plate of food, consisting of a semi-stale roll, cheese, and cup of black tea, the steam long having simmered off of it. A hand reached forth, grasping the glass, bringing it to his mouth and stomaching the bitter taste as the dark liquid washed down his throat and settled into his churning stomach. Tea was supposed to help with calming, right? He needed all the help he could get. How could sleeping in the same room as this girl make him so nervous? The silence of the room was heavy, the only sounds echoing from the bathroom. No question that she was in there crying – he had run into her after her half-an-hour showers back at the base enough to know that her red eyes weren’t from soap getting into them. At least she still held on to some of that Hizuru pride, unable to let herself be seen as weak in front of others. It shouldn’t matter anymore. He wished he could comfort her, but he equally wished to let it go. He didn’t need that baggage; he owed her nothing. The feelings he developed as a cadet had transformed into sentiments that most definitely were not “just a crush,” but now he didn’t know how to define them. He cared, but it hurt to look at her with pity. She was a remnant of the war he wanted to forget. Maybe it was really time to let go. 

Mikasa stared at her naked reflection in the mirror, steam swirling in the dim light, blurring the edges of the glass. Her skin was still damp from the shower, small droplets escaped her locks onto her shoulders.

Was there something wrong with her?

Had her Ackerman bloodline erased all traces of that girl from ten years ago? Hands found themselves at her face, exploring the planes shakily. She didn’t have a face like others, due to her mother’s Hizuru heritage. Eyes were almond shaped, irises dark and grey. Skin that was as pale as porcelain, no matter how much time she spent out in the sun. Hair was impossibly dark, even darker than Levi’s, cropped short so that the back brushed her nape, while her bangs fell into her eyes. A training accident a year ago had erased her efforts at growing it out, but she had eclipsed any disappointment with duty – it was better for the impending war, anyways. If it were not for her petite nose and the sweep of eyelashes across her lids, she would’ve looked like a boy.

Maybe that’s why he had always ignored her. She watched as a drop of water trailed down her body, between her breasts and down the plane of her stomach. If her face barely held on to feminine traces, her body was completely void of them. There were times she had been especially insecure about her femininity, especially in comparison to other girls, who had pretty faces and had been blessed with gentle curves while Mikasa’s seemed to disappear under hardened muscle. But war had left her with no time to ponder these insecurities.

A hand skimmed across her stomach, grazing the indentions in her skin from her muscles abdomen. She thought of the Cadets, back when they had first appeared, when she was afforded small moments to think of her body. 

_“Wow, Mikasa!” Sasha would say as they were changing. “How is it that you have more muscles than any of the boys!”_

_Mina Carolina turned and gave her a smirk. “And she’s top of the class. They must be really jealous.”_

Mikasa had cherished those words as a compliment, back when her worth was calculated by her strength as a soldier, her ability to protect Eren and Armin. She had plumed when she could first see the ridges of muscles in her abdomen, evidence of her hard work and talent. Her palm moved upward, pawing at the small bulges of flesh on her chest, the breasts seemingly out of place on her otherwise broad, unwomanly body. They were even smaller now, due to her lack of eating, usually concealed by tight bindings. 

She never really hated her body. It was perfect for her role as soldier. She was a machine, just as much as Levi – she never let her gender affect that. But maybe she should have.

_Sasha whined. “I already need a new training shirt!” She held up the white garment, revealing to the others how the top buttons had snapped off._

_Ymir laughed. “Maybe eat less potatoes, potato girl.” Historia, then Krista, slapped her shoulder._

_“Don’t be rude, Ymir.” A small blush stained the blonde’s cheeks. “She’s not the only one. I had to size up my pants.”_

_The ginger girl, Hannah, nodded in agreement. “It’s natural. Don’t worry!” She smiled at her roommates. “It just means we are becoming women!”_

_Ymir smirked at the girl. “Oh yeah, perfect for Franz—” Krista slapped a hand over her mouth._

That night, for a moment, Mikasa let herself consider her body. She clutched her training shirt in her hands, replaying the words of the girls earlier that day. The top buttons were perfectly intact, and it fit her like a glove, except for the occasional tightness in her shoulders. When she had asked Sasha if she was abnormal for her lack of growth in both departments, she had ensured her that it was not a big deal. That she should be proud of her body, and how much she had worked for it. Mikasa accepted her words, grateful to be ensured by her friend.

Other memories of the cadets came to mind. One night, in particular, when she had woken up thirsty and made her way to the cafeteria in search of water. She passed by the boy’s barracks, stopping when she heard small laughs and voices, two of them belonging to Armin and Eren. She had half a mind to barge in and demand that they go to bed, that it was too late for festivities and they needed their rest. But the subject of their discussion made them stop.

_“So, Franz, you and Hannah, huh?” Said a suggestive voice, distinctly Connie’s._

_She could almost hear the blush in his words. “Hah. Yeah, she’s kind of perfect.”_

_Reiner laughed. “Nah, if you ask me, Krista’s the one. She isn’t called the goddess of the 104th for nothing.”_

_Small voices hummed in agreement, a few listing out other names of her female comrades. She fumed. They shouldn’t be talking about them like that –_

_“What do girls matter anyway?” Eren’s voice demanded. “Just because they’ve got stupid breasts now, you let them all distract you. We’re here to learn to defeat the titans, not to dally around.”_

_Reiner let out a holler. “That’s rich, coming from you, blockhead. Mikasa’s practically attached to your hip. Maybe if you showed some interest –”_

_“What the hell are you talking about?”_

_Reiner only laughed harder. “You’re thick as bricks, aren’t you? Isn’t it obvious that –”_

_Armin’s voice cut through. “Reiner, Eren, that’s enough.” Mikasa let out a breath, silently thankful that blonde had stopped any further conversation. Eren didn’t need to know what she felt about him._

_“I don’t blame him, to be honest.” A voice rang out, belonging to a cadet named Daz. “Built like a board, that one. Strong as a beast, too. I wouldn’t pay attention to her either.”_

_A few laughs sounded. Reiner chuckled. “Lucky Jean’s, asleep. He would’ve ripped you a new one for that comment –”_

_“What’s that’s supposed to mean?” Eren said, but his words died at Armin’s hushes to calm them all down._

_Mikasa willed herself to walk away, unsure of what to think, confused about what they meant by 'built like a board.' She was a soldier. Did it really matter to boys that much?_

The next day, in hand to hand training, she made sure to be paired up with Daz, then channeled her emotions into beating him down enough so that he wouldn’t walk straight for the next few days, but not enough to show it was intentional. It was an outlet for her irrational thoughts, her emerging insecurities. It shouldn’t matter to her that she wasn’t like the other girls, nor that Eren seemed to have no clue about her feelings while everyone else was blatantly aware of them. It didn’t matter – her sole objective was to keep him and Armin safe. Especially after she had found out about the Curse of Ymir, she thought nothing of the future, unwilling to confront the thought of losing them. All she needed was to be by his side -- her status mattered not. Whether or not her love for him was reciprocated was trivial.

Oh, how things had changed. Years passed, and she realized how much unrequited love could eat at the soul. But it was always worth it. She buried the insecurities about her body, her fear that he didn't want her next to him, beneath her duty as a soldier. When she had found out about the supposed source of strength that made her and Levi so strong, she was elated. Clearly she was meant to be doing this, even if she deep down wanted a peaceful life. She was meant to protect her loved ones, to fulfill Carla’s promise.

Her eyes pulled themselves from the floor back onto her reflection as she escaped from the memories back into reality. She should be proud of that corded muscle, she told herself. Nothing would change that. Her pale skin was more gaunt than usual, ridges of her ribs beginning to slice through her flesh. Her fingers slid over her side, finding a raised patch of skin, a past healed injury.

She began to focus on her scars, the pink and red lines scattered across her body, littering her skin and more prominent from the hot water of the shower. For most, she couldn’t even recall their origin. A particularly deep slice in her abdomen was from a sparring session with Levi. Another crescent shaped burn on her wrist from a cooking mishap with Sasha. Thin pink mars on her thighs and forearms from when she had fell through the tree branches back in the Cadets – her ODM gear had malfunctioned, leading her to sail through the forest. Although she had been ordered bedrest, she would sneak pushups when the nurses were gone, much to Armin’s dismay. Of course, there was the cut beneath her eye, stretching across her cheekbone, back from when Eren’s titan had attacked her in Trost. It was the only one of its kind on her face, as if she was subconsciously cautious about marring it, deep down wishing to retain a conventional standard of beauty.

Mikasa had always cherished her scars – they were badges of her work, of what she had been successful in protecting. But the imperfection took upon a sinister meaning, now that it was all over, now that she had nothing left to protect. Memories of all the fights after they had reclaimed the walls and made it to the ocean flashed back in her mind. After Eren had changed. At what point did she stop becoming his protector and start becoming his pawn? Had it always been like that? She felt the tears pool in the backs of her eyes. Did she really mean nothing to him? Did he really hate her, as he said? She initially ignored his claims, that she was a slave to her Ackerman genes, and him, her host. Maybe that’s why his death, even after all he had done to hurt her, pained her so. She was pathetic. She had let herself be exploited, sword and shield, yet choosing to disregard how empty he had looked all after he has kissed the hand of –

No. It was Mikasa’s fault. She thought of the queen. She was so unlike her, a beautiful and caring woman, a queen and not a devoted pawn. No. Eren deserved someone like her. Not Mikasa. Never Mikasa. Fingers absently twiddled the dark hairs at the nape of her neck, thinking of Historia’s long golden locks. Maybe if she grew out her hair again, stopped working out so much… No. What did it matter now? How pathetic was she to be jealous. Historia was her friend. He was gone. She had thought herself cast aside, the only memory left of him in a family that could never be hers. It wouldn't have mattered if it weren't for his words at that damn restaurant, claiming his hatred for her. Armin had said it was a lie, but what if it wasn't? Maybe she had been too overbearing in the past, given him no room to breath. There was no undoing it at this point, it had been set in stone. It was not as if she could blame them anyways. Love, or whatever existed between them, was inherently complex. She only wished that he had told her, that she didn't have to find out this way. All she could do was remember the past, the memories of him that had kept her alive before, and wonder if maybe she should have tried to understand him sooner. Ponder how she and Armin had ignored that dark, sad side of him, in favor of the happy boy they knew as kids. They were to blame as well -- she can't imagine having to shoulder the burden of knowing the future, responsible for saving the island -- yet they did nothing to help him.

She blinked back tears, wiping at her face and finally pulling her eyes away to look for her night clothes. She shrugged on the white fabric and underwear. The stupid dress was like a mockery after her incessant thoughts, imposing the femininity and image of purity that she had always lacked and secretly craved. These secret desires, wishes for the normalcy in a girl's life, came flooding into her now that there was nothing left to fight. It did nothing but make her feel worse, the pure color blending with her skin but contrasting with the blood on her hands, all the killing that couldn’t be wiped away. A face in particular came to mind, the young girl from Trost she had ripped the scarf from while she was on her deathbed. She had brought that girl into the war, ripped her from her life and ensured that she would only be returned to her mother in the form of ashes. She was a murderous machine. She felt stupid for not seeing it before, back in the Cadets, when everyone had praised Historia for her looks and attitude, while they praised Mikasa for her strength, avoiding her at all costs. Of course Eren would want the former. Historia would always have been a good mother, despite her own parents -- a perfect candidate to love. She wished she could hate her, but who could hate the kind, pretty girl who had remained their ally. Mikasa's resentment had come not from what Historia had done, but rather how she had in abundance everything good that Mikasa had not. What the Ackerman had in brute strength the queen made up for in charisma and fervor -- a human, not a soldier. Everything she had chosen to disregard about her appearance and demeanor came rushing back to her, filling her with need as she contemplated in retrospect. She had never been paid a compliment about her looks, as much as she wanted it… except for once…

_“You have really beautiful black hair.”_

By the very same man who was standing in the next room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Not totally satisfied but it's a little more exciting I think. I've gone back and edit the last chapters a bit as well, because I want to add some parts that I think will fulfill the story better. It came to my attention that I sort of was misinterpreted in some sections because in all honesty I was too busy to go back and reread a few more times, so I suggest rereading the past two chapters. In short, I think I made it more clear that her pain is less about Eren and more about being alone and insecure now that she doesn't have to be a soldier -- she is a teenage girl, after all. Thank you for your comments!

Chapter 3

Jean leaned over the dark pine dresser, pulling open drawer after drawer to rummage through its contents in search of a blanket. A chill had begun to settle over the room, but he was too exhausted to even consider finding wood and starting a fire in the heater. They would just have to endure a night without the luxury of a toasty room. The shower water had long shut off, but Mikasa had yet to emerge from the bath – any much longer and he would have to muster the courage to knock on the door. 

Just as he had finally unearthed a thick wool blanket in the bottom drawer, its ruby color washed out edges frayed, the bathroom door creaked open, warm light spilling into the room. Jean flinched uncharacteristically, turning to see the silhouette of the Ackerman in the frame. 

In the gaunt lighting of the room Mikasa’s form was ghastly, her face pallid, only exacerbated by the stark whiteness of her clothing. The loose fabric swallowed her, draping down her shoulders and kissing her kneecaps. Deep shadows were cast over her cheekbones and darkened eyes, as if she had aged immeasurably between the time she had entered and left the bathroom. Jean’s initial urge was to tear his gaze away, to refuse to be haunted by this shell of a girl. But it began to turn into something entirely different – a desire to take her into his hands, splay his palms across her waist, to feel the coldness of her skin and soul and bring back whatever warmth he could offer. 

Jean willed those thoughts to disappear back to the pit they had come from – that was until her grey eyes found his, and she drifted toward him, movements so small that he couldn’t tell if she was walking or floating. Jean’s feet took root into the floor, unable to move as she stepped in front of him, expression blank and eyes empty. His hand itched to reach forward, daring to sweep the damp bangs off her forehead, to feel her skin and test whether it was as cold as the marble it resembled. The room was entirely too warm now. _What in the world could she want?,_

He wanted so desperately to run away, but her stare froze him in place. Her eyes were so vacant, lined with dark circles, that he wasn’t sure if she was the real Mikasa or a ghoul he had imagined. The silence was thick and unwavering, neither party making any effort to break it until her saw her lips creep open.

“…Is there something wrong with me?”

His jaw almost dropped. _What?,_ Wrong with her? He silent laughed. Was this a joke? Of course there was something wrong with her. Attaching herself to that suicidal blockhead even if he only brought her pain. Being humanity’s strongest soldier yet emotionally the weakest. Forcing herself to relive her own pain and past in hopes that something would change. Could she not comprehend her own sadness? He blinked down at her, trying to find what that distant expression even meant to insinuate.

“Mikasa… it’s okay to feel bad after everything ---”

“No…” her gaze shifted to his chest. “That’s not what I meant.”

He then understood that he had grossly misinterpreted her words. She was not asking for an explanation of her emotions. She was pleading for an answer – but he had no idea to what. It was as if she was attempting to grasp on to something – anything, rather – to convince her not to lock herself in a room and waste away until she was nothing but bones and dust. 

Grey eyes found his wide hazel orbs again, glancing to see if he had finally registered her meaning. His creased brow and open mouth made it evident he did not. He could see her fight off the urge to chew her lower lip, as if she wished to disguise her impending nervousness with a persistent front of indifference.

“… I mean with my body. With my face. Is there something wrong with _me_?”

Jean wanted to lay down and die. This had to be a joke. Had Connie paid her up for his own entertainment? Was this what it was all about? Stupid insecurities about herself now that she discovered Eren had a taste for someone else? He had almost laughed if it wasn’t so clear that she was hurting – that Yeager had finally succeeded in bruising every part of her soul. A soldier as dedicated as her would never begin to concern herself with things as menial as beauty and attractiveness. While, yes, that had made her a strange cadet, indifferent to girlish principles of fashion and charm, even in the face of puberty, Jean had learned to admire her devotion. It was not as if she had lost these characteristics, anyways. She really was beautiful – he had always thought so, from the first time she had passed him (and ignored him) in the dining hall as fresh recruits. What was there to find ugly? Her hair was thick and full, dark as obsidian, skin white as snow, interrupted only by angled grey eyes and lush, pink lips. Her body was the epitome of strength and endurance, a fusion between the hard, muscled planes of a soldier and the tapered waist and long legs typical in a woman. What business did she have asking him, of all people, that question? Did the staring not give it away? The ceaseless fighting with Eren? 

“… There’s nothing wrong with either, Mikasa.”

Her eyes flickered, as if a moment of hope had cracked through the surface. But she turned from him anyways, facing the bed, as if she could not bear to confront his countenance. Jean stared at the back of her neck, the coolness of the room giving rise to gooseflesh on her bare nape.

“I was nine when I first killed a man,” she said strangely, looking down at her palms.

Jean had heard the story before, about how Eren and Mikasa had murdered three men who had slaughtered her parents in order to save her from being trafficked. It was unclear whether or not it had been true or simply a tale passed among the cadets to push the narrative of the frightening, cold girl and her suicidal, rage-filled adoptive brother. Armin had insisted it was true, but Jean lacked the nerve to ask either party – reliving memories of one’s dying parents most likely was not pleasant.

“I’ve killed a lot of people for Paradis…” She shook her head. “No… for _Eren_.”

She brough her hands closer to her face, as if she could see all the blood she had washed them with as a soldier.

“I even let that girl die. Alone. The one I saved… it was my fault she joined the Scouts in the first place. I saved her then I let her die in pain.”

Jean flinched. He knew the girl she was speaking of – a little blonde teen from Trost that had immediately sought him out as a recruit, begging him to place her on Mikasa’s team. He could vaguely recall that she had become a Yeagerist, one of Floch’s soldiers. 

“War is war, Mikasa. We were soldiers. It’s part of the job. And don’t blame yourself for someone else’s decisions”

She turned abruptly, arms now falling by her side. Tears gave her eyes a glassy sheen, but behind it was the same distant expression.

“So…” she whispered. “Even with that…” her eyes searched his. “… you don’t find me... even a little bit revolting?”

The question brought him back to reality from his thoughts, brow creasing even further. So this was it… her last shred of hope.

“No. Of course not.”

Her eyes widened, contemplating his composure in shock. Lower lip quivering, she opened her mouth in the slightest, as if searching for the words from her throat, unable to fathom his answer. Once again, Jean found himself filled with perverse desire, wishing it could be easy to stretch across the gap between them and brush a palm against her face, to lick the grief off her lips.

“Prove it.”

His attempt at keeping a calm resolve snapped, panic surging through his veins. He blinked down at her, dumb and confused at the unusual determination and pleading in her expression. Prove _what_? That he had admired her? That he found her beautiful? That he couldn’t imagine ever finding her repulsive, no matter how much he wanted to so he could avoid his own heartbreak? And prove it how, exactly? Was she really expecting him to carve out his heart and offer it on a platter?

“Mikasa, I’m not sure—”

The words did not find completion. Mikasa moved forward, forcing him to take a step back as she trapped them in the corner, reaching forth to grasp the sleeve of his shirt. No effort to resist, Jean simply watched as she slipped frigid fingers around his wrist, bringing it toward her body against her chest. The room around him wasted away, leaving only that point of connection between them -- his hand beneath her callused palm, cupping her breast through thin fabric. Nothing but the warm, steady beat of her heart and her icy, trembling fingers. 

Her eyes never left his face, her stare piercing with a tearful determination insisting -- no, demanding -- that he give her what she needs. 

“Prove it. Show me that I’m not a disgusting, murderous slave. That someone can want me.” Her voice cracked. “Please.”

Shell-shocked was an understatement. Unable to meet her eyes, he remained focus on the sight of her slender, pale hand against his larger one, savoring the feeling of her flesh beneath the slightest of barriers, already puckering from the cold. Previous impure thoughts swelled in his mind, simultaneously running rampant attempting to vanish. Was the world so cruel as to taunt him like this? 

The moment was exceedingly heavy and long, neither of them daring to move until Mikasa let her hand fall away, leaving his limp arm to slip from her body. Snatched back to reality, he finally met her face, now filled with tears. That sliver of hope had been snuffed, leaving behind only that raw and deep insecurity that had brought her to him in the first place. Desolate and raw rejection that had chipped away at her resolve, the only hope for recovery being someone else’s validation.

“…Never mind.” Her voice trembled. She canted her head to the floor, swiveling away from him. “I’m sorry. Forget this happened.”

He could still feel the ghost of her flesh upon his skin, as if she had branded it with the coldest and warmest parts of her. In the moment it had startled him, confused him. But now, after the fact, it only left him with want, recalling again the yearn to pull her against him and search for softness beneath her corded and harsh exterior. For so long, he had kept it locked behind bars in his head – that innate desire to be close to her, to be with her – in respect of her feelings for Eren. They became compartmentalized, only emerging in late night thoughts spurred by longing and unadulterated want – which would bring him only guilt and self-loathing the next day. Because no matter how much he wanted her, Jean was nowhere near first priority in her mind. Yet here she was now. Eren dead. Her love unrequited. Offering him up her body.

Jean was not so foolish to believe this was for him – he was merely a tool, a man who happened to be in the next room over when she had broken down in leu of her discovery of Eren’s lover. He owed her nothing. In fact, it would probably be better to walk away. To go to sleep and pretend as if seeing her this destroyed and lonely left no impact on him. Did she think she was the only one that had loved and lost in that damn war? Jean had loved Sasha like a sister, Eren like a brother, and even Floch deep down somewhere. He wanted to scoff at her. To tell her the truth -- that she should have known long ago she and Eren would never end in anything but pain. He had earned the right to expel his frustrations and simply leave.

… but he couldn’t. Not with that persistent itching under his skin, the lasting heat on his palm. If she would use him as a replacement for her dead love, he would return the favor. _Fuck_ if he didn’t want this. And _fuck_ if it was so morally reprehensible to use her to quell his desires, to find a distraction from all the shit they had endured. He had yet to take up the bottle since they had returned, pride keeping him from turning into a drunk just to forget. Was sex better? Worse? Fuck if he cared anymore. If this is what she, this is what she would get. 

His hand darted out to grasp her bandaged wrist, grip bruising and forceful. He whipped her body around to where she was before, except close enough to him that he could see the startle in her reddening eyes, his chest almost brushing against hers. Her brows pulled together in confusion, lips slipping open to release words of questioning before he leaned in and silenced them.

He caught the little gasp of her breath as his lips collided with hers, uncoordinated and urgent, a hand still gripping her wrist between their bodies. Mikasa remained frozen for a moment, pulling back only an inch, but she quickly adverted her uncertainty, pushing back onto his mouth gently. He groaned when he felt her lips press against his -- unexperienced and tense, but nonetheless pleasurable – while her free hand found purchase in the fabric of his shirt. Her lips were cold, so he pushed as much warmth as he could muster into the contact. Although he had shared kisses before, mostly drunken mistakes with Garrison girls after they had reclaimed Wall Maria, but he had either been too inebriated or not cared enough to feel it in earnest. This was something different -- the rough texture of her lips was enticing, her timid movements alluring.

When the need for air became too great, Jean pulled away, leaning his forehead on to hers. Eyes fluttered open, capturing the image of her flushed face, light pants mingling with his breaths. Her eyes were glazed and low, no longer filled with the tears from a minute ago. 

“Does that answer it well enough?”

Her irises flicked upwards to meet his. She nodded lightly, incapable of speech, before forcing her hand from his grip, moving to clasp it behind his neck as if to say _keep going._

Jean returned the invitation in earnest, shifting her so that her back was pressed to the edge of the dresser, compelling her to bend backwards slightly when his lips met hers again. 

A small noise creeped from her mouth, barely audible, as his hands slid down her body and around her waist. The skin was growing hot beneath the fabric, and he brushed his palms up and down as if to rub more heat into them, relishing in the texture of her ribs and obliques. His mouth dared to push boundaries as well, tilting his head to get a better angle above her. She welcomed the advance, fingers moving up to tangle themselves in his hair, pulling his lower lip gently between hers, making him groan.

The floodgates of desire were creeping open forcefully, lust and longing flowing into his veins, ignited by her efforts of reciprocation. He coaxed her plush lips open with a small nip, allowing his tongue to probe tenderly testing to see if she would grant him access. Mikasa tensed slightly, but allowed him entry, finding the movement almost natural. His tongue ran lightly over her lips, teeth scraping against her mouth in a slow rhythm. As they progressed, her own tongue began to experiment with his, limited only to small sweeps until she had mustered the resolve to bite into his lower lip, licking it gently afterwards.

 _Fuck._ He groaned, an entirely new wave of heat finally shooting down his spine. His fingers squeezed her sides, catching her sigh with his lips, then lifted her form upwards so she was sitting on the dresser, eye level with him. She pulled back for a moment, letting him guide her body so that her knees were slightly spread apart, and he stood between them, one hand leaving its place on her side to slip up her back, caressing every groove of her spine until it found purchase in the raven locks at the base of her skull. He used the grip to tilt her head back slightly, exposing the long column of her neck.

Mikasa’s eyes closed, relishing in the way his breath fanned upon her skin as moved closer, shivers erupting down her spine. His lips began their assault at her jaw line, peppering small kisses until he reached her throat and buried himself in it. He felt her arms shake as she clasped his soldiers, unknowingly holding him to her body as he pressed open mouthed kisses along her pulse, savoring the hitches it elicited in her breath. She tasted like soap and the barest hint of sweat rising from the heat of their pursuits. He began to make his way back up behind her ear, where he nipped lightly, soothing over the skin with the dip of his tongue afterwards. The moan that graced his ears had him groaning against her neck, pants now uncomfortably tight between her hips. The hand upon her waist dared to descend to her hip, the thumb rubbing circles into her clothing.

Jean traced his nose up her throat yet again, planning another trail down her jaw and back to her lips, but her sudden bruising grip forced him forward into her so that her thighs were tight around his hips, his chest pressed impossibly close to hers, wordlessly demanding he stop teasing her.

 _”Fuck…”_ he groaned into her ear, biting down onto the lobe. A noise was pulled from her throat – half gasp half whimper – and Jean found it almost disturbing how much it turned him on more. He had crossed the point of no return. This wasn’t a dream. It was happening.

His hands abandoned their posts to coax her legs around his hips. Mikasa’s head fell, disappointment in her eyes that he had halted his kisses, before an entirely new kind of pressure when her core met his evoked an illicit moan from her throat. Palms under her thighs lifted her off the dresser, and Jean made his way to the bed quickly while she distracted herself with returning kisses along his stubbled jaw.

He lowered her onto the bed, attempting to be gentle as not to be overly domineering, crawling on top so that their eyes met again. Her pale skin was tinged pink down past the neck, her chest rising and falling so that the smallest outlines of her nipples peaked against the thin fabric. For a moment he wished that he had artistic skills, so that he could paint the picture before him and frame it. A hand darted up to pull his face back down to hers, insisting that he continue what they had started.

Once again Jean set upon a path down her jaw, even more aggressively than before. Every suck to her skin led her to moan and arch her back, but his hands at her hips pinned her in place, aided by the knees on either side of one leg. Wine colored bruises were left in the wake of his lips, ensuring not to neglect an inch of her skin. One of her hands in his hair scraped pleasurably against his scalp while pushing his face to her skin.

His efforts soon made their way to her clavicle, tongue dipping into each crevice, before he was stopped by the collar of her clothing. Desired seethed, frustrated at the interruption, and he brought up his hands to dislodge the buttons of her dress from their homes without hesitation.

Instantly enticed by the newly revealed patch of flesh, Jean descended upon it feverously, wishing to savor the taste of her skin along his tongue. A hand encircled her ribs, the thumb slowly grazing the gentle swell of her flesh, making her flinch and gasp. Like he was drunk on lust, Jean’s mind paid no attention his surrounds, focusing only on the pliable flesh beneath his body, on the heavy breaths from both of their lungs, and on the raging pressure that was growing between his legs. 

Mikasa’s knee bent slightly, raising her hip directly into his groin, and it only served to further egg him on, teeth sinking almost painfully into her flesh. Groans vibrated against her skin, and soon one hand encircled the side of her rear, fingers gently raising her hips so that they pressed into his crotch fully, earning him a moan from her mouth that sounded vaguely like his name. 

All attempts at gentleness left his mind at the sound. He found himself briefly wondering why he had not done this before and how it had come so easily between them. His hips rolled sporadically, a testament to the final thread of restraint abandoning his body, succumbing himself to this moment and this moment only. Nothing existed outside her and him and the lust between their bodies, no death, no war, no betrayal – only the pleasurable thralls of human sin.

Jean let his hands wander as if they had minds of their own, the left reaching down to inch the hem of her dress to her thigh while the right continued to scrape against the bottom of her breast in tandem with his teeth. He relished in the feeling, licking and sucking the flushed skin, utterly captivated not only by the woman beneath him, but by how effective of a distraction lust could become. That was until, he realized the soothing warmth of her hand against his scalp had gone missing.

He then began notice that the rise and fall of her chest was erratic – much too fast even for what they were doing. The knee she had shifted earlier was not indication of her pleasure, but rather discomfort, he now understood from the rigidness of her body. Her heartbeat was so rapid that he could feel it banging relentlessly beneath his fingers. The spell had been broken and Jean glanced up.

Any last trace of arousal deserted his body when he laid eyes on Mikasa’s strained expression. The arm that was once resting comfortably against his head was now splayed across her face, eyes tucked into the crook of her elbow as if to fruitlessly hide the tears streaming down her cheeks and the shaking of her shoulders.

Jean immediately retreated from her skin, terrified that he had done something to hurt her further. Noticing the absence of his lips and hands from her body, Mikasa peaked from her elbow, startled when she saw his worried stare directly on hers.

She shot a hand forward to push down at his shoulders. “Fuck, Jean. I’m sorry. Keep going. Sorry.”

He didn’t move, instead watching her with sorrowful eyes. Her attempts to force him back to his tasks grew stronger, but Jean resisted, using his own hands to grasp her wrists and pluck them from his shoulders.

“Mikasa…” 

Her tears fell relentlessly now, but even through her determination she was too weak to withstand his pull, letting him sit her up so it was unavoidable to confront his gaze.

“…Please just keep going. It’s okay.”

Walls… Jean wanted both to slap sense into her and bring her into a hug.

“Mikasa. It’s not. Besides, I’m not going to fuck a girl while she’s crying. Kind of a blow to my ego.”

Her face twisted into a gruesome mix of a laugh and a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

He could feel her shake and clench with each weep, attempting to break away from his hold to wipe at her eyes. But he wouldn’t stand it any longer… he had deluded himself into thinking that he could make this purely about his own pleasure, convince himself into believing that he could forget to care. Her need for validation clearly stemmed from deeply-entrenched turmoil – a lack of self-worth and a crisis of soul. Yet he had found himself exploiting them for his own gain. Pathetic. Even more so that his feelings for her. 

Eyes screwed shut, Mikasa did not notice as he leaned closer until he had slipped his hands around her back and was pulling her into his lap. They flew open in confusion, but she kept silent as he guided his legs around his thighs in a straddle, pushing at her back so that her chest was flush to his.

Her surprise had halted her crying for a moment, leaving her only to observe his movements, contemplate what he was to do. His hand came to the back of her head, leading it to rest on his shoulder. She remained frozen against him, not just stiff, but cold as well.

His fingers rubbed small circles into her scalp and back. “Mikasa. It’s okay to cry. You don’t have to hide it… not from me, at least.”

That was all it took for her to completely breakdown in tears. She attempted to muffle her wails by tucking her face into the crook of his neck, but it only served to push them through his body and dampen the collar of his shirt. His hands struggled to soothe her shaking by smoothing into her skin, eventually shifting to pull the sheets around her body.

Something about their position was infinitely more intimate than what they had been doing mere moments ago: their bodies were fully pressed together, from heel to head. Yet there was nothing remotely sexual about it either. It was a thirst for warmth, a craving to escape loneliness and pain… and it wasn’t just for her. They embraced tightly like children frightened by a storm, searching for some form of comfort – a feeling that had been denied from both Jean and Mikasa’s shitty excuse of a childhood. Soldiers did not hug when they were upset, soldiers did not spill tears over the dead. But were they ever really soldiers, or just children adopting the role by circumstance? And now that the need for what they had been disallowed was overflowing and combusting within them, ignited by everything they had dared to love and lose in the war for humanity. 

And it had brought them there, two people pushed together by those same circumstances. Jean found that holding her, comforting her and himself, satisfied him more than sex and lust ever could. The feeling of a heartbeat adjacent to his, after so much death and destruction, was unbelievably reassuring – it reminded him that they had been left behind together, whether for better or for worse. So he let himself have the moment. Let himself pull her so close that he could almost suffocate the grief. 

Eventually Mikasa’s shakes grew slighter, evidently arriving at the same conclusions as Jean. Her breath against his neck grew shallower and her heartbeat steadied into a slow rhythm. She had fallen into a well-deserved slumber. As not to disturb her, Jean lowered them backwards onto the mattress, untangling their legs but gripping her tighter so that she would not abandon his arms in his sleep. He buried them in the covers to flea from the chill of the night, letting the smell of soap in her hair and the beat of her heart envelop him. He drifted off into sleep with dreams of a world free of pain.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I actually am quite satisfied with this chapter -- lots of angst and some fluff and the end. Thank you all for the kind comments! I keep rereading them and smiling, since it's really encouraging to see people enjoy the story.

Chapter 4

Jean woke up to a bright room and empty bed, the surface of the mattress beside him still radiating the faint heat of her body. Disappointment hit him, but he was not surprised – it was typical of her to avoid the consequences of her actions in this regard. In her place was left a note in scratchy handwriting -- _Breakfast_ \-- on the nightstand. Well, at least she hadn’t run too far. Although he could not deduce whether or not this was an invitation, he decided to meet her anyways. 

He made his way to the tavern on the ground floor after changing and washing up, immediately spotting Mikasa’s hunched form in the corner, nursing a cup of tea and half-eaten piece of toast. She flinched at the sound of his footsteps approaching her, turning her head, and Jean felt like he had been hit by a carriage at full speed.

Around her neck were purple and red bruises, encircling her throat like a depraved necklace, her efforts to hide them with the collar of her shirt futile. He had spotted one or two on his own skin in the mirror, but nothing like this… he clearly hadn’t been thinking straight last night. That, or it was much darker than he remembered. A furious blush graced both of their faces, and Mikasa could not meet his eyes as he pulled out a chair to sit across from her.

He cleared his throat. “We should get going soon. To meet Connie and the captain.”

She gave a small hum in assertion but remained fascinated by counting the crumbs on her plate rather than say anything at all. The awkwardness was palpable – she had yet to glace at him for more than a second, and Jean could not look in her direction without his eyes slipping down to her neck. Here they were, like blushing prepubescent children. But what conversation were they to make anyways? The weather? Battle strategies? How fast they could strap their ODM equipment? It was not as if she were willing to talk about what happened -- 

“… I… I wanted to say sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen last night. My fault. So, don’t feel bad or anything,” she suddenly interjected, her eyes stealing a glance at his face before returning to her meal.

He certainly hadn’t expected that. He could only blink at her, bewildered, unsure whether he should feel mortified that she regret what they had done or happy that she had shown care for him. Probably the former. 

“Erm… it’s okay.”

_Wow_. That was it? 

She nodded slightly, letting out a breath. “That’s good.”

He scratched at his head, unsure of what he could do to diffuse the situation further. Was she really expecting that to be it? Case closed? Maybe she could bury it and forget it ever happened but for him… the arrogant cadet within him wanted to smirk and flaunt – he had finally got what he wanted. He had gotten his taste, so now he could move on and continue normally with his life. Except that’s not how it was at all. He could never choose not to care, about her or anyone. So he didn’t mention that he was glad it happened. That he liked it, even. 

“We should get going,” she said, standing up out of her seat and turning to the door. 

Jean followed, still contemplating what had occurred then and before. He had been naïve to think that the unspoken contract from last night – his validation in exchange for her body – would ever work. And now they would just have to face the repercussions. He began to pray less to whatever god he believed in that she would quit being so dense and more that Connie would restrain himself from saying something obscene.

He realized, unfortunately, that Connie was above the control of any god-like being. They had met with him and the captain in a back alley, then boarded a rickety carriage for what surely was the most miserable ride in the history of the world. 

Mikasa had also concluded that they were destined for an awkward conversation, because as they had finally spotted the forms of their comrades, she had deftly pulled her collar over her throat and avoided making direct eye contact unless absolutely necessary. Fortunately, it had provoked nothing but a raised eyebrow from Levi.

Regrettably, however, this did not last long. Cramped in that tiny carriage, Mikasa and Jean had made the utmost effort to separate themselves from one another. Each was pressed on their respective sides of the wall, knees pointing outwards so that they widened the gap between their thighs from a singular inch to two.

Connie and Levi had been too occupied with quiet conversation about their journey to notice, until a lull in their discussion spurred wandering eyes from the former.

“Hey, Jean, you have something on your—” Jean clenched his eyes shut right as Connie’s widened. _Fuck._ “Wait… no way!” He hopped forward in his seat, casting him a suggestive smile. “I didn’t know you knew any ladies in Stohess. Why didn’t you tell me?! C’mon, does she have any friends at least?”

When Jean didn’t answer, keeping his eyes continuously gazing out the window, Connie scowled. Then his eyes widened again, in sudden realization, before he glanced at a tense Mikasa, who had expectedly attempted to cover herself even more. 

“You’re kidding…damn, Jean! Didn’t expect that, no offense!”

Even Levi diverted his attention from the paperwork in his lap to flit his eyes between the two teens in front of him. 

“Tsk… like a bunch of jackrabbits. Hope you didn’t strangle him, Ackerman.”

Jean groaned in embarrassment, yet he was unwilling to address the situation in fear that it was not what she wished. 

“Stop. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again. We talked and resolved the issue,” she finally said.

Connie grimaced as he watched Jean’s reaction. “Ouch!” 

Jean wanted to laugh. _Talked?_ Those ten words of exchange that morning was her definition of talking?

Levi smirked. “Always so formal Ackerman. Maybe you need to try again. These things are supposed to loosen you up, you know. Or have you found something you can’t master on the first try?”

Utterly mortified, Jean hid his face in the crook of his elbow, while Mikasa cast the captain a glare that rivaled his own. Connie hollered in his seat, reaching forth to attempt to console his friend, spewing some nonsensical metaphot about ‘fish in the sea’ that Niccolo had taught him. The rest of the ride Jean chose to count the number of cows and trees in the fields around them – anything to avoid thinking about Mikasa and her reaction. Somehow he hoped that it wouldn’t ruin what they had between them before – not that there was much to ruin in the first place. From when they had been cadets to now, he had thought that had gained somewhat of a silent understanding. Unlike with other people, she took his words and advice in earnest, even if she argued with others. But after everything had ended, he had no energy to test the waters while she was grieving and now… he was too smart to delude himself into thinking nothing would change.

Two weeks of time told Jean exactly that. 

They were locked up in relative isolation in the old base, awaiting their fate from the government, and things seemed to settle into a normal routine. It was as if they were back to those days, when the walls were up but their lives were simple, when they were cattle in a pen but somehow so free that they did not bother to care. He and Connie would spend their time looking through old maps and manuals in the small library, scrounging up cured meats in the basement that were half-rotten but reminded them of Sasha nonetheless. Levi grilled them endlessly about cleaning, spouting complaints about the lack of disinfectants and cadets to order around. The time he didn’t spend working he spent with them, playing cards and even spouting the occasional smile from Connie’s returned antics. They only left their bubble to pick up food on the west side of town, expeditions that Jean dreaded.

She was the only outlier. 

The first few days after they had returned, Jean would have been convinced she was dead, were it not for the sound of running water in the showers during ungodly hours at night. He willed himself not to care – she was doing this to herself. But somehow her absence had him worrying about her more than usual. Had she really not come down to eat dinner with them once? What was she eating then? Was she okay?

Levi seemed to notice too, because after five days she sauntered into the dining hall as they were beginning to eat their meal. Jean almost choked on his water; afraid he had seen a ghost. Their light conversations died as she pulled out a chair, wood screeching on the stone, and sat herself down beside the captain. Only then did Jean notice the addition of a fourth plate – the one they had opted to remove after she had not showed up for the third time. Connie looked equally surprised, but the captain was passive – clearly this has been another one of his schemes to will her out of bed. 

But she ignored their stares. She sat and she ate, and Jean wanted to cry from how happy he was that there was an ounce of survival left in her. Their conversations resumed, quieter this time, and they dined. 

Such was the routine for the past week. They would work, clean, play, and then eat, and she would join, always arriving late and leaving early. She would even speak sometimes, giving comments on the weather and asking questions about their pending status as terrorists. Give nods of her head while she nibbled on bread. Give vague answers regarding her correspondence with Hizuru. Her face remained pale, but her cheeks were less hollowed out. She would arrive, eat, then leave them again, like a fleeting sunrise. 

But she was still a minefield. And everyone else noticed to. When she appeared, their words would always quiet, become gentler, and when she disappeared, they would roar again, their arguments echoing across the walls and nipping her heals as she escaped upstairs. It was as if her presence infiltrated their souls, imposing melancholy and muffling their spirits. And Jean was angry, because he let it happen and because it was such an unconscious reflex for all of them. She had never been the warmest of people, but their was a difference between that cold, Levi-like façade and the burdened aura she exuded now. But progress was progress -- he willed himself into being satisfied that she was in human presence again, whether by choice or demand. 

So Jean was happy. The stone walls of the base may have been a cage, but there was comfort in their familiarity. It protected them from the outside, the unknown, the impending future. He found himself dreading the moment they were finally declared innocent and allowed to go free, like a house pet that was suddenly let go into the world only to return to its kennel. He wished he could pause these moments in time and avoid thinking about the future.

Unfortunately, the future was unnecessarily loud, and came in the form of letters from his dear mother in Trost. She had sent message after message, somehow knowing the address of their secret hideout, demanding that he reply to her and come see her. She declared that he was forgetting about his poor mother, that he was ungrateful, but soon her fervor dissipated, and she sent letters begging him to come visit her, that she missed him, that she would make him omelets without complaint. He missed her too, but he was scared. So he didn’t reply.

Levi and Connie’s willingness to move on only exacerbated his stress. Each casually discussed their plans over dinner, as if they required no contemplation at all: Connie was to live with Sasha’s family and work with Niccolo, while Levi would work at Historia’s orphanage and manage Underground reform efforts. And when they would ask Jean what he wanted to do, where he would settle down, he would shrug and divert the conversation. It was not as if he had a lack of options – Historia had sent him letters offering up various positions in the government, as representative to this or that. Levi encouraged him to consider it, giving rare words of praise about his leadership and intelligence. Jean shrugged that off as well, a far cry from the teenage boy that would memorize the remarks just to rub them in Yeager’s face.

Nevertheless, Jean occupied his mind with other things – cleaning, paperwork, poker – and not the future. Not how alone he felt, despite the people around him. He could not pinpoint what it was that made him so stuck on the past. Was it guilt that he had killed his comrades and put Paradis’ future in jeopardy? Fear that no matter what their status on paper was, they would be treated as criminals? Did he miss their old lives so badly? It didn’t matter either way. There was something – someone – keeping him in that place.

Mikasa had found an abundance of activities to occupy herself with – and only half of them involved sitting, sulking, or crying. An improvement. 

Of course, she had continued her excessive showering and lack of eating, but Levi had shattered her routine when he swung open her door without knocking to invade her room. He threatened to shut off the hot water if she didn’t come down to dinner, spouting some nonsense again about how she needed to stop avoiding her problems. 

What he didn’t know was that she didn’t shower with hot water in the first place, but she shut her mouth and complied out of spite and pride. So she sat at their dinners, invaded their happiness to munch on bread and pretended not to notice how their conversations got quieter when she approached and louder when she left. Good for them, she thought. They deserved to be happy and live long lives doing whatever they wanted. 

Afterwards, she would occupy herself with going through old belongings – namely Armin’s, because she found herself missing him more than anyone – and searching for some remanent of the past to avoid thinking about the future. She even read the books she had no interest in before, about science and the sea, and imagined that it was him reading it to her and Eren under the tree in the meadow when they were children. 

After she had exhausted her supply of literature, she would be forced to ponder what it was she would do when they were finally let go. She felt like that little girl again, after Eren had saved her, asking how to get home knowing full and well there wasn’t one left to return to. Mikasa longed for that company again. To not be lonely without being a burden like she was now. 

Tonight she sat on her own bed for once – she had been using Armin’s to sleep – huddled in the only corner free from mountains of letters and papers addressed her name, stamped with the royal and Azumabito crests. How ridiculous it was when Levi knocked on her door, arms full of white parchment, dumping it into her arms as if to say _“see, you’re not alone, someone cares.”_

But they cared for the wrong reasons. Each letter had been the same, from Kiyomi or royal administrators, spewing demands hidden by gentle words that she become a royal ambassador for the Hizuru engineers still on the island. It was her duty, they would say, to serve both her homeland and her mother’s people by becoming a tool of peace, all in exchange for her safety and freedom.

Mikasa had enough of being a tool, however. For Eren, for Paradis, and especially for Hizuru. They had first arrived claiming that they had wanted to see her, only for her to find out they only wished to exploit her lineage for the island’s resources. How ironic that she had spent so many years yearning for family, only to be so disappointed when she found it. As far as she was concerned, Armin was her real family. And perhaps Levi when he wasn’t a dick, or Eren before she had realized she was seeing the wrong parts of him. The mark on her wrist burned beneath its wrapping.

_“This is the symbol of our clan which we have to pass down.”_

She sighed. If only her mother could see her now, devoid of the pride and joy she had instilled in her as a child. It was hard to remember their faces now, the images of her parents reduced down to vague blobs of dark and blonde hair. She imagined that she looked like her mother now. But it didn’t really matter anyways. The mark burned again.

_“When you have children of your own, you’ll give it to them”_

Oh well. Unless Levi decided to reproduce, or Kiyomi suddenly got pregnant, the Ackerman and Azumabito lineages would die with her. Good fucking riddance. They had only brough her pain: the loss of her parents, the exploitation of her superhuman strength, the misuse of her familial ties. No one should have to endure that again – she would end the cycle of agony by erasing their blood. 

Then again, she longed for that peaceful ignorance and isolation she had enjoyed as a child before it was all taken from her. Levi had asked her what she had wanted to do when they left, since they had all had it perfectly figured out. _To forget absolutely everything that happened and be a kid again. To not be alone._ Instead she replied that she wasn’t sure. Levi and Connie would nod their heads, wordlessly communicating that they were sorry but they wouldn’t wait for her. Only Jean would avert his gaze and clench his jaw. 

The Jean matter was a whole beast of its own. She felt incredibly guilty – guilty and dirty – for having pressured him into that kind of situation, exploited his kindness in attempts to rid her insecurities. She wished she could have felt ashamed for having cried on his shoulder and slept in his arms, but she didn’t. It felt too good to have been embarrassed about it. For once since they had all died, she hadn’t felt alone. When she woke up still wrapped around him, she stared at his face and traced his features with his gaze for what felt like hours but was surely minutes. Relishing in the heat of another human. She let herself indulge in simply watching him, examining the way his nose sloped and estimating the length of the scruff on his jaw, for some reason fantasizing that he was there because he wanted to be and not because he pitied her. But then he stirred in his sleep, breaking the ruse, and she fled, like always, as not to confront the consequences of her actions. To remove herself so she wasn’t force out. The silence between them was painful, and she regret absolutely everything and nothing about it. But she could tell he was lonely too, deep down somewhere. He needed someone. Not her, but someone better. 

Despite those repercussions, she could not deny that things were improving: her appetite was returning steadily, her sleeps less disturbed, and her grief less debilitating. She thought less and less of Eren in sad ways and more of more of Armin in happy ways. She saw his smile in the way the sunlight poured through the windows in the early morning, his excitement in the scribbled annotations in his books. He would have wanted her to be happy. He would have wanted her to _think for herself, for once_. Those were the words he had told her amidst the chaos. Although she had yet to understand what they meant, she realized that they made the letters scattered across the dull sheets seem less like an opportunity and more like kindling. 

_Think for yourself, for once._

She may have not known the meaning of that remark, but she did know what would help her clear her thoughts and find it.

Mikasa sat up to go work out.

Jean, oddly, found himself restless that night. He tossed and turned in his bed, attempting to find a remotely comfortable position atop the solid mattress. Usually it wasn’t so hard – Connie’s snores would lull him to sleep and he’d be too exhausted to try and ponder his thoughts. Now, however, an hour had passed since he went to bed, and his friend had long filled the room with his harsh snores. Thus began his cycle of searching for the adequate sleeping position: on his side, on his stomach, atop his back, and then on his other side again. Nothing was working and he remained plagued by some inexplicable agitation within his mind. After his third round of tossing and turning, he got out of bed and slithered out of the room, searching for peace with a particular destination in mind. 

He was not prepared, however, to climb up to the attic and hear rough panting and the creaking of floorboards. By process of deduction, he determined that it was not an animal, nor the lewd activity part of his mind alluded to. So he cracked open the tiny door to observe a dark figure, illuminated only by moonlight filtering through cracks in the wood, doing… was that sit ups?

The mysterious figure halted their movements and turned toward Jean, who had just then realized his curiosity left him forgetting to be discrete. 

“Hello?” said a small, female voice between pants.

Jean blanched. _Shit_. What was Mikasa doing here of all places? Never mind that, why was she working out in the middle of the night? Actually, no. That was typical.

He pushed through the door and entered the space. “Uh, hello.”

She frantically righted herself, standing up so he could see she was in her pajamas, the barest evidence of perspiration visible on her brow. “Oh, Jean. Umm. Hello.”

He was appalled by how off guard he had caught her. “So… what are you doing here?”

She blushed, and he couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the physical activity. “Working out.”

A smile almost cracked through his composure – for all her sharpness she was clueless sometimes. “I can see that, but erm… why here? In the middle of the night?”

He could almost see her face redden further in the dim lighting. “Well—” she stammered, “there’s a breeze up here. And I didn’t want to wake anyone. Also, I needed to work out. You know, clear the mind and whatnot.”

It was almost adorable that he had caught her this disheveled, so unlike herself. It was good to see her return to some part of her former self, even if it was the part occupied with endless training. “I see.”

Her gaze skidded from the floor up across his body. “So… what about you?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing here?”

Now it was his turn to blush. Wait, what was he here for? Oh, right. “I guess I also wanted to clear my mind.”

“… by coming to an attic? Are you going to do sit ups too?”

He froze, now realizing how odd it must have been to intrude on her like this. “Um, no, I go to –” he stopped. Maybe she needed it to. “Actually, I can show you, if you want.”

“Show me what?”

“How I clear my mind.”

She pondered his expression for a moment, fiddling with the bandage on her wrist. “…okay.”

Jean offered her a small smile and turned to the back corner where a little hatch was inlayed into the wood. He walked briskly and avoided thinking about her trailing behind him as not to further quicken the beating of his heart. His fingers found the rusted latch, and he released it to push open the hatch into the night. 

He turned around to face the girl, who stood puzzled. “Let’s go.”

She followed him out the door and onto a narrow ledge of the rooftop, employing the agility they had garnered from years of ODM use to hop across a beam and climb onto a weathered portion of the roof with only a slight incline. He scooted himself further across the tiles so that Mikasa could get onto the space with him. When they were both seated comfortable, he opened his mouth.

“Well, this is it.”

The spot was situated on the southern façade of the building, facing the ruins of where the walls had been. Now, there was nothing to obstruct the view of the rolling hills and fields behind them. A lack of city lights and streetlamps left the stars above them bare. It was a clear night. 

He had found this place a long time ago, when they were staying there a few short weeks as Scouts. As typical, he and Yeager had gotten into another fight over dumb crap, leading to them being banished from the dining hall without dinner by Levi. Jean had yet to cool off, so he found himself secluded in the attic, away from the incessant banter of his comrades. He then discovered that little hatch, no obvious reason for its existence, and soon after found this spot on the roof where he disappeared to in times like these. When thoughts were too much. It reminded him of a lot of things – the cadets, mainly, when Marco would escort him out of the barracks after particularly aggressive arguments, insisting that he cool down and talk about his feelings. 

_“I’m mad.”_

_Marco rolled his eyes. “No shit. Why, though?”_

_“Don’t know. Yeager just annoys me.”_

_The dark-haired boy would just laugh. “Well, that’s pretty clear. You should sort that out though. Who knows what arrogant slime we’ll be working with in the MPs.”_

_Jean gave off grumpy noises before he leaned back on the porch to look up at the sky. “Yeah. Well, I can’t wait either way.”_

_Marco matched his relaxed position to gaze up at the same stars. “Yeah, neither can I.”_

Marco may had left, but these little memories of him did not – nor did the effects they had on Jean. Even after he had found out how he had died from Reiner and Annie, it only made him miss him more, instead of giving him closure. So this little activity, stupid as it was, felt like he was still with him, urging him to lower his fists and _calm down to think._

Jean’s thoughts whisked away to look at her. Her pale profile was stark against the dark backdrop, blending into her hair. Her eyes wandered across the scenery restlessly, her bottom lip pulled into her mouth by her teeth. As beautiful as she was, she was stiff, and he could still see the little droplets of sweat racing down her neck past the white collar of her clothing and the way her muscles seemed rigid underneath them. 

“You’re not doing it right.” 

“What?” she said, ripping her gaze from the landscape in confusion. 

“You’re all tense. Just lean back or something. And try not to think.” He demonstrated by lying back onto the tiles, hands behind his head as if he were sunbathing.

She hesitantly copied him, resting on the roof with her arms at her sides. The night breeze billowed their clothing, and if her hair were long as it once was, it would have blown across the space between them. Jean closed his eyes, not wishing to have her presence seep into the peacefulness he established. It was only him. Existing. Nothing else. No past war, no nagging mother, no pretty girl, no passing time. Just that moment. And it felt good.

He didn’t know how much time had passed before he broke his trance. He sighed, removing his hands from behind his head to place them at his sides. As he readjusted, the fingers on his left hand brushed against something warm and soft. He flinched, quickly realizing it was her hand and attempted to flee. But her fingers shifted, catching his as they escaped.

He was sure his heart had stopped when she pressed her palm to his, their calluses scraping against each other, and laced their fingers together. He forgot the stars and moon, all the mantra he had just spewed, in favor of her skin. All he could feel was the gradient of temperature in her hands – the warm palms contrasting against cool fingers. They were tightly woven with his, resting along the surface of the rooftop – rough and soft all at the same time.

But for once, he wasn’t scared. Her touch didn’t elicit panic or distress. Because although his heart beat wildly, he could feel hers, equally as fast, surging through her fingertips into his. And that meant he wasn’t alone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Not a lot of interaction in this one and I don't love it, but it sets up a lot of the plot and conflict for the rest of the chapters regarding the Yeagerists and government so it's necessary. The next chapter will probably by up rather soon! I'm excited because a character that I love is getting reintroduced (in the next one or the one after that). There will also be something a little more ~interesting~ as well ;)
> 
> I also wanted to say thank you for 100 kudos:))) So many of the comments are so kind and motivating! I really love reading them and I apologize if I have not replied. There have been some comments with issues about the Eren Historia Mikasa love triangle, to which I say, fuck the shipping wars. I don't like either pairing hence why the story isn't about them:). I respect everyone's opinion, and my intention is not to villainize one group or another, but if you don't like it please don't read! But besides that, thank you and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 5

Mikasa found that, slowly, the self-loathing and grief withered away. Bit by bit. Piece by piece.

As each day in the base passed, she found herself occupying the dinner table for longer periods of time, not just for however long it took her to finish her meals. She even ventured downstairs midday to join Connie and Jean for a round of cards – that was until Levi threw her a mop and demanded she make up for lost time. With no mind to argue and endure his criticisms, she used the opportunity as a distraction from the residual grief. Surely but slowly, in between the gaps of her new routine, her lips would find themselves tilting upwards in a small smile at Connie's clumsiness or Levi's insults.

Her days began to settle into a rhythm: eat, clean, play, work, mope, sleep (in Armin’s bed, still). Then late at night, she would venture up to the little thatch of roof to look at the stars, even when the sky was obstructed by menacing clouds. On the days he wasn’t exhausted, Jean would join to, seemingly unphased by her invasion of his secret spot. They did not hold hands again, and she had yet to understand why she had done it in the first place. A need for reassurance, she assumed, just like that night at the inn she kept buried in her memory. To discover whether or not someone would extend a hand if she reached out to them. To find that they would keep reaching and refuse to give up on her. So they could learn that she would be there, too. Like she had been with Armin. Eren. She didn’t mind that they hadn’t held hands again. The gap of space between their bodies no longer felt infinitely burdensome like a few weeks ago – it was bridged by some sort of understanding, some kind of mutual loneliness that could only be extinguished by another human's presence, silent or not.

They rarely exchanged words, except for one night, just as the sun was setting and the stars were clambering into the sky, bright and abundant. 

_“You ever wonder what’s out there?” she had asked, breaking the silence._

_Jean had opened his eyes to turn to her, a small frown on his lips. “Out in the world? Rubble, I guess. Some poor lost souls here and there.”_

_She shook her head, saddened by the memories of the Rumbling from only weeks ago. “No, I mean up there. In the sky.”_

_He tilted his head back to gaze upwards, the remnants of the sun casting a red glow on his cheeks. “Hm. I’m not sure.”_

_“It’s almost like little suns. The stars, I mean. I’m not sure what the moon is. But it is odd that it changes. Like its growing and shrinking.”_

_“I think Armin rubbed off on you a little too much. Maybe its Sasha up there eating at it.”_

_Mikasa smiled for a moment, remembering Armin’s bright eyes when he spoke of the ocean, pointing excitedly at that book. Back then, she never admit it, but she never really believed in their stories. She thought it futile, a hopelessly romantic notion, but one she supported for Armin and Eren. However, when they had reached the shore on that fateful day, when she had felt the water beneath her fingers, tasted the salt on her tongue, she realized how wrong she had been. It was incredible. Not just the ocean, but to have hope. To live for something and not have it deceive you._

_“The Hizuru people are very smart. Maybe they know something about it.”_

_He hummed. “Yeah. You should ask them.”_

The moon and stars briefly were to her what she imagined the ocean was to Armin. A dream, no matter how distant, that it was okay to reach for. Cruel yet beautiful. But the things she wanted always felt so far away. Her parents back. A peaceful life with Eren and Armin. Whatever it was she desired now. Maybe she was an idealist. But the stars, the moon, the fleeing sun in the distance, reminded her of herself. Deep down, Mikasa felt like a nuisance. A burden. Back when she was taken in by the Yeagers, and especially now. For others, the night sky was just an absence of daylight, an interruption of their lives, when terrible things were rumored to come. People like Armin, Connie, Levi, Sasha, and especially Jean let the darkness infiltrate into their daylight even when they shouldn’t have. Even when they should have let it go. Maybe that’s why she felt such an attachment to Eren, because she knew he held the same pain as her. That’s what she had believed at least – that she understood him. That had only left her plummeting into the same abyss they had come from, alone. But that boy lying next to her on the roof… he now stood on the cusp of day and night, like he was deciding whether or not to reach out and attempt to pull her from the darkness, knowing full and well it could suck him in. The same darkness she thought she could save Eren from but had failed. 

She wanted so desperately to brave that darkness alone, to not be responsible for someone else's downfall. But she knew now that she could not. Not when so much was uncertain. Nevertheless, she would enjoy their little limbo between heaven and hell within those stone walls and relish in the relative peace they had established, closing her eyes to the future.

But all good things inevitably come to an end.

Dinner that last night was better than most, and suspiciously so – steaming rice and small slivers of meat. A feast in comparison to their usual meager meals. Wine had even been pulled from the basement earlier, despite earlier retorts from the captain that they would turn into revolting drunks if they even touched the alcohol. So Mikasa was not surprised when Levi cleared his throat in announcement as they all sat down.

“I have good news and bad news.”

Connie’s ears perked up, and Mikasa turned up from cutting her steak to listen to the captain, a sense of dread filling her gut. She could see from Jean’s strained expression he was thinking the same. 

“Good news is we are no longer war criminals. So it’s not entirely legal to kidnap and kill us now, according to the letter I received today.”

Connie grinned from ear to ear, setting down his utensils to begin to holler drunkenly until Levi held up a hand to silence him.

“Bad news is the Yeagerists still hold significant traction in a few districts… and there is speculation about the princess’s blood that is outside of Historia’s control.”

Mikasa’s gaze held steady at the mention of the queen. She noticed Jean briefly glance at her, searching her face for any hint panic or despair. But she didn’t flinch. That was a matter she had tucked under a rug in her mind. It did not concern her. 

“… so we must go to trial and face our crimes in a court of law. In a month or so. But we can leave this goddamn building in the meantime.”

His three subordinates blinked at him. Then Jean scoffed. Connie scowled. Mikasa said nothing at all, expression still unreadable.

“That’s ridiculous! Goddamn it, we don’t have to be treated like heroes, but how can they keep treating us like pseudo-criminals, especially when even Historia understands! Hiding out here was supposed to be the final punishment!” Connie demanded, his temper that usually remained restrained simmering out.

“I know. But we are not to be treated as criminals. We’re free. Think of it less as a trial and more of a formality. We have allies in the Garrison that have some sway in the legal system, and Nile, hopefully, will give us some support from the MPs. The Scouts are still overrun with Yeagerists, and there’s enough of them to cause serious issues in the future if we don’t do as they demand. It’s out of the queen’s hands.” Levi’s expression remained grim. 

“Issues in the future? There’s already tension out there, I can feel it. If the regiments are split, I can only imagine that things will get even worse. Dammit. Is peace always so unattainable?” Jean slammed his fist onto the table, shaking the dishes.

“Fighting hasn’t broken out since the walls fell, at least not on a large scope. But you’re right. Both sides are brewing. The Garrison and some MPs resent the Scouts for disrupting peace in the countryside with the emergence of the Yeagerist faction… shitting on Erwin’s grave would be less disrespectful to the Corp’s image.” Levi for a moment cast a glare so dark it elicited a shiver down their spines. “So this is our opportunity. Yet again, everything is in our hands. Our trial, if it goes well, will establish relative peace and remove Yeagerist power. But if we can’t win them over… enough of that, though. We can at least be satisfied that they won’t be breathing down our necks with a knife at our back. Consider it a gift from the queen.”

Mikasa finally spoke, face pale. “… What do we even do until then?”

Levi smirked, breaking the frightening aura he had been exuding earlier, as if he found her comment hilarious. “Oh, am I so glad you asked. Since you and Kirstein over there couldn’t figure it out a plan for yourselves, despite ample time and offers, I have found for you.”

It was now Mikasa’s turn to scowl while Jean gaped at the captain. “You can’t just do that.”

“Yes, I can. Until the trial, you are still Scouts, and therefore my subordinates. I will not be your babysitters out in the real world. So you will graciously accept the opportunity I have spent hours planning. Or if you want to go off on your own, be my guests.”

Mikasa opened her mouth to yell at the captain, but he immediately cut her off. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to hear your complaints, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear them now. So shut up and listen.

She still scoured at the other Ackerman, more angry that he had shattered the safe haven they had established than that he had taken the liberty to make a decision about her life without her input. In fact, a small part of her was grateful. Grateful that she would get to hold off even longer on yet another decision that she had no idea how to approach. Jean, meanwhile, was grumbling, but had no energy to argue with Levi.

“You both are going to Trost.” Levi said. Jean paled when he turned to him. “Your mother sends her regards, Jean.”

The man slammed his fists on the table again. “Who gave you the right to reply to her?”

Connie scratched his head, looking guilty. “I replied Jean. She sent me a letter asking how you were, and I couldn’t just ignore it. Levi took care of the rest.” Jean glared daggers at his friend.

“Kirstein. Treat your mother with respect. Need I remind you that the rest of us lack that opportunity?” The man’s eyes widened before he guilty slinked back into his seat. 

“You will stay with your mother. You have been assigned a job with the Garrison in strategies. Mikasa will find herself a room at an inn, like a good little cadet, and keep from causing trouble. Then she will make for the port and meet with Hizuru under the Garrison’s engineering corp. Don’t scowl. I know you haven’t been replying to their letters.”

Jean groaned at the prospect of staying with his mother again. “Why Trost?”

“It’s one of the only districts with Garrison reinforcements in case something happens to you all. Each of you are to report to them. If you don’t they’ll assume you’re dead or missing in action and alert the queen. It won’t be pretty. So don’t be stubborn.” He pulled a folder from under the table and plopped it onto the weathered wood. “There are travel documents, funds, and ferry tickets in here. Plus all the details I don’t care to explain.”

Mikasa glowered at the papers as if she weren’t sure if she wanted to kiss them or burn them. “When do we leave?”

Levi grinned. “Tomorrow. So pack up. Hope you missed mother’s cooking, Kirstein. Connie departs for Dauper the same day, and I’ll be heading to Mitras afterwards. Don’t have such long faces, we’re finally leaving this dusty ditch.”

 _That’s exactly the problem_ Mikasa thought to herself. How long had it taken her to be comfortable in the safety here? How long would it take for her to repeat the process elsewhere? Did that risk outweigh the relief she had felt that her decisions were delayed? But didn’t she deserve to not be a tool anymore? Questions hammered down on her mind. Mikasa cared little about being in Trost, but the idea of becoming a messenger between Paradis and Hizuru, the very role she wished to avoid, aggravated her. Yet she didn’t have the nerve to argue with Levi, anyways. She would remain the submissive soldier for yet another month. Her eyes cast aside to observe Jean’s expression. He looked upset, but contemplating. Almost as if he was wondering the same things she was. 

They ate the rest of the meal in silence before Mikasa went upstairs to pack.

She didn’t have many personal belongings – most of them had vanished between expeditions and relocations. Not that she had a need for many things in the first place. 

But now, she had adopted quite a few items from the drawers of her lost comrades. Mainly Armin’s books, a few knick-knacks from Sasha. She couldn’t bring herself to look in Eren’s drawer, though. Her bag was stuffed to the brim, however, and she briefly considered sacrificing her clothing to fit yet another book within. 

She then finally slid open the last drawer of her dresser, one she didn’t use even when the others became cramped, to see if that red piece of fabric had disappeared. It hadn’t. The edges were frayed, settled with dust, but still there, nonetheless. She hated to admit to herself that she wished it would vanish so she didn’t have to see it again, let it remind her of what she had lost. A symbol of comfort that had wholly warped its meaning. So she dumped out her bag and stuffed it in the bottom before refilling it. Out of sight. Out of reach. But there. A terribly familiar pain erupted in her skull, memories following in its wake.

_“Something like that… I’ll wrap it as many times as I need to. From now on, as well as many times as I need to…_

And she had inhaled that promise like a drowning man gasping for air. Mikasa let herself think of Eren, if just for a moment. She wasn’t upset anymore, she realized. About him and Historia. She should hate him, after so many years of letting her love for him drive her forward, only to find out she was only a pawn, and Historia was, literally, the queen. But love was a claim that did not obstruct others. It was invisible tie that ran only from her to him, binding her in a way that was almost unhealthy, in retrospect. _Dedicate your heart._ Of course it hurt. But it mattered little. The pain was slowly eclipsed by a kind of satisfaction – she had loved the part of him she had chosen to see for so long that she could convince herself to be happy for him. Learning that he had a family with Historia was like reading a fairytale in a book. Watching. Observing. Looking into a story, bittersweet because no matter how beautiful, she was merely the audience. 

But she couldn’t hate them. All she could do was hope that one day the happiness would belong to her. Even if her hands were dirty. Even if she could not bear to think of what lies ahead. Hope that she would stop drifting like a seed in the wind and take root in fertile soil, with people like Armin and Eren to ground her. So she would let that hope fuel her and pray it wouldn’t deceive her. 

Just as Levi had promised, Mikasa and Jean were kicked out of the base promptly in the morning, just as the sun gave way in the horizon. It felt strange to be outside again for anything other than a discrete errand to the market or to linger on the rooftop. She felt… exposed, out in the sun again. They weren’t free yet – just given a longer leash. But that was something, a happy medium between the suffocation of the base walls and the frightening prospect of freedom. So Mikasa willed herself to stay cool and collected, hopefully absorbing some of the pride of the man she was traveling alongside with. Any timidness would not serve her well – she needed to put on the resolve of a soldier despite her civilian clothing.

They had spoken very little on the ferry to Trost. Jean had seemed somewhat nervous about seeing his mother again, and Mikasa was expecting the worst. She vaguely remembered her appearance one night when they were in the city as cadets, but she had been too occupied with Armin and Eren to pay much attention to the woman, only recalling how flustered Kirstein had been. He now spent the boat ride flipping through the papers Levi had given them and diving up funds. Mikasa was happy for the silence and spent the hours looking out into the plains and forests. From what she had read in the documents, the plan seemed tolerable enough. She was to essentially be a helping hand for the engineers in the Garrison, and although she was not sure what assistance she could provide beside heavy lifting, it would be a decent past time. In two weeks, she was due to leave for a trip to the port, and then return before departing to Mitras for the trial. What worried her most was being seen. Her face was recognizable, and now that people knew there were other races outside the island, it was a blatant identifier rather than characteristic people regarded with mystery. She could surely defend herself easily, but she couldn’t stop the stares that followed. Only the branches of the military were aware of the role she had taken in Eren’s death, but word surely had gotten out… being singled out by the public would only serve to remind her of the past. 

As the sun reached its peak in the sky, Mikasa recognized the approaching city in the distance, the same as it had been all those years ago when they had graduated, only no longer hidden by walls. So much had started there – the appearance of the Colossal, Eren’s transformation. And now it was to be her occupancy. 

The closer they got to the city, the more she noticed Jean visibly stiffen, as if he was dreading to come back home. He packed up the documents and their belongings quickly as they finally began docking along the river, groups of people already rushing to exit.

He tilted his hat lower over his face before standing. “We should go quickly.”

He did not provide any explanation, but she lugged along her baggage anyways, following him onto solid group within the swarm of people. Although the crowd would surely hide their identities, she doubted that was his intention. It was more likely something to do with his mother – a pointless precaution given that he was moving back into his home. Unless, of course, he had taken it upon himself to amend that detail in Levi’s plan.

They were halfway out of the loading zone before a worried, female voice cut across the noisy masses.

“Sir, I have read the bulletin _multiple_ times, and it says the ferry from the western region should have arrived 15 minutes ago!”

A nervous voice stammered in response, “Ma’am I’m very sorry but we have no way of knowing of any delays, I ensure you that the ferry has just arrived or will arrive shortly.”

Jean flinched at the sound of the voice, causing him to reach down and pull at her wrist. “Let’s go this way inste –"

“Jean Kirstein! Is that really you?”

He did not get to finish his words before the crowd parted, almost magically, revealing a plump, middle-aged woman standing at the ferry desk. Jean froze then groaned when the woman rushed toward them, face full of delight. He glanced around quickly, but finding no path of escape, stayed put to endure encountering the woman.

“Son!” she ran up to them, wide smile drawing out small wrinkles in her face, tears now sprinkling in her eyes. As she came closer, Mikasa’s suspicions were immediately confirmed – this was his mother. Despite her age and gender, she could see the resemblance in her kind, amber eyes and ashy hair, now streaked with grey. It was almost humorous how petrified Jean was to interact with his own mother, and she could sense his rigidness as she finally reached them.

“Oh my Walls, have you have grown, Jean-bo—” the woman exclaimed, suddenly stopping when she noticed Mikasa standing beside him. The girl could not help but quirk an eyebrow at the nickname that had almost slipped out. “J-Jean! Just Jean! You have grown even more!” She pinched his chin. “And this beard! You make me feel so old.” Her son caught her hands when she reached up to grasp his face.

He gave her an anxious, tightlipped smile. “Hello, Mother.”

She wiped at her eyes and grasped at her heart, as if she couldn’t believe the site in front of her eyes, before she turned to look at Mikasa. “And who is this lovely young woman?” she inquired, eyes bright and welcoming.

“Mikasa Ackerman. It’s a pleasure,” she answered, reaching out a hand, but the woman ignored it and swooped in for a warm hug. Mikasa tensed before wrapping her arms lightly around the woman, wondering just how long it had been since she had felt a mother’s touch.

She released the girl to grasp at her soldier and look into her eyes. “Oh my, I’ve heard so much about you from Je—” Mikasa noticed the woman glance sideways at her son, and she could practically feel the glare he was casting her. “… from the news! You know, the military reports! The famous soldier, second only to Captain Levi! I am honored.” Mikasa offered her a wary smile, reminded yet again of the soldier’s resolve she needed to wear. 

His mother then sharply turned back to Jean, her face completely changing temperament, and wacked him upside the head.

“Owww, hey –” he rubbed at his temple, glaring down at the short woman.

“That’s what happens when you won’t even answer your own mother’s letter! Is it that hard? Even your friend Connie and the captain could reply!”

“Sorry, mother. Was a little busy, you know. Dealing with being a criminal.”

She rolled her eyes and wacked him across the other temple. “Don’t use that word! You are not a criminal. We’ll discuss the rest in private.” The woman switched back to her earlier friendly disposition to turn back to Mikasa.

The girls’s amused expression faltered when she realized the attention was back on her. “Um, Mrs. Kirstein, may I ask where the nearest inn is?”

A bewildered expression erupted on her face. “Nonsense! I won’t let one of Jean’s friends stay at an inn when my home is perfectly empty. There isn’t an inn in the entire city nice enough for what you deserve!”

“Umm, Mom, I’m not sure –” Jean reached out a hand to place it on his mother’s shoulder.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you, anyways,” Mikasa interjected as well.

“I insist, Jean. There’s plenty of room, and you are far from a trouble to us. And please, Mikasa, call me Elise!”

Her son looked at the girl, whose eyes were already on his, contemplating. He pondered for a moment before giving her a small nod. Mikasa thought back to her earlier worries. She hated to be a burden but… maybe she could be a little selfish for once. Being alone in the midst of their legal situation wasn’t very appealing and besides, she could pay the family with her funds and do plenty around the house in her spare time.

“Um… okay. I will. Thank you.” She unexpectedly felt bashful at the courteous offer.

The woman smiled brightly, clutching Mikasa’s hands into her own. “Good. Now, get your things and let’s go.” She sauntered down the street, leaving the two to trail her. “I hope you all are hungry!”

Jean gave yet another groan, still rubbing at his temple while he picked up his bags and chased his mother down the street. Mikasa took a deep breath before collecting her belongings and following behind him. 

Somewhere inside she began to feel warm – a byproduct of that bashful feeling she had felt only moments ago. It was incredibly heartening to be wanted in someone’s company, even if it was out of mere politeness or graciousness. It was a warmth that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Not strong. Not long-lasting. But there, nonetheless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the comments:) I'm updating now because I'm super busy with school in the next week so it's going to be a while before I can write or edit anything again. Meanwhile here is this chapter. Will prob go back and change stuff because idk how to write horny Jean🧍 but trust me. Mystery character gets introduced next chapter and my only hint is she was in S1 and is super underrated. I hope the chapter is enjoyable:) ALSO Jean beard fans like me do not fret it comes back I just needed to think of a situation that would be steamy and I had no other ideas. 🧍 It also makes me scared bc obviously there's gonna be smut and I am hella scared of writing it... but I will push through.

Chapter 6

The Kirstein home was exactly as Mikasa had expected it to be. It was as if the house resembled Mrs. Kirstein, exuding the same warmth from its walls as the smile on her face. The lovely two-story structure was on the western side of the city, adjacent to the business district and surrounded by other residences and shops. The pristine exterior walls and red-tile roof were indicative of their comfortable financial situation, but unlike the nearby houses, there were various pink and purple flowers adorning pots at the windows, and even vines creeping up one end of the stone façade, like little imperfect touches that made it all the more pleasant. The inside was equally as agreeable, filled with nicely-worn furniture and splashes of color in the fabric of the curtains.

Despite the comfort exuding from both the house and Mrs. Kirstein, Mikasa learned that the woman had some concealed spunk as well. As soon as they had arrived, she escorted the girl to a spare bedroom upstairs, leaving her to unpack her belongings in private. Not long after Elise had left, Mikasa heard rambunctious yelling from downstairs, followed by a series of groans and the sound of a sharp slap against skin. A smile crept onto Mikasa’s face as she imagined the older woman scolding her son, a man practically twice her height, into submission. It reminded her a lot of Auntie Carla’s reprimands against Eren after he inevitably returned home with bruises from a long day of fighting Armin’s bullies.

Even the bedroom was reminiscent of the one she had shared with Eren in Shiganshina. The floor was a soft pine, matching the wooden furniture, whose wear was barely noticeable beneath her bare feet. A small bed was tucked into the corner, stark white sheets pulled across the surface beneath a thick quilt. The window shielded by delicate curtains filtered in soft light and looked onto the bustling street below. It felt… warm. Nice. But temporary, of course. She unpacked her clothing, but kept personal belongings tucked in her luggage – it felt somehow wrong to scatter them across the room, claiming it as her own. It was a mechanism she had developed after years of being displaced: avoid forming an attachment to a particular location and it would be less devastating to leave it. Only Armin’s books escaped the clutches of her bags and were placed atop the nightstand for later reading. 

Mikasa hid her smirk as she made her way back downstairs, spotting Jean sitting at the dining table while rubbing at a spot on his cheek that had not yet lost its redness. He clearly had taken his hot-headed streak from his mother, but her kindness equally as much. The woman was collecting various pots in the kitchen and turned when she heard the approaching footsteps.

“Oh, Mikasa, dear! Would you mind helping prepare lunch?” When the girl smiled a nodded, she returned it. “I set some potatoes on the table, would you please peal them?” She looked over her shoulder toward the vegetables, spotting her son still sulking and grumbling – a sight that once again triggered a complete reversal of her disposition. “JEAN! Come hear and help your mother at the stove! Don’t be so lazy.”

Mikasa passed Jean as they switched places, noticing amusing grumbles under his breath, and sat herself in a dining chair to carefully peel the skin off of the fresh vegetables. As she passed a knife over the surface of the potatoes, she found herself watching the mother and son in front of her. The woman was spouting commands at her now-compliant son, demanding that he crack open eggs into a bowl and chop the bundle of chives on the counter. Meanwhile Elise was doing her own part in searing meat in a pan, the delicious smell wafting across the house and tickling Mikasa’s nose. Her stomach grumbled – she tended to be a rather picky eater, but she had forgotten how long it had been since she had consumed a plentiful meal. Not only did the ingredients look fresh and filling, but they had the added touch of a mother’s love.

Her expertise with blades allowed her to quickly complete her task, and she handed it the bowl of skinned potatoes to Jean, who had cooled off his temper and seemed to be rather enjoying helping his mother. The woman had insisted that Mikasa relax and let them handle the rest of the work since she was the guest, and Mikasa complied. Sitting at the dining table, the girl became enthralled with watching the two interact. She never would have guessed, but Jean was most certainly a mother’s boy at heart, once the impatience and annoyance faded away. He helped his mother stir the pot, funneled ingredients into her hands, and even cast her a few small smiles when she began to speak of how much he loved this dish when he was little. Jean reddened, recalling the memories, and turned back to look at their guest, surprise crossing his face when he saw Mikasa watching them earnestly, chin resting on her hand. It was then her turn to fluster, embarrassed that he had caught her observing them, but it was dispelled when he produced a awkward grin. She continued to watch as he turned back, amazed by how gentle his mother was, how softly she spoke to him outside of her scolding, how smoothly they passed items and instructions between each other. 

Yet again she was reminded of her past. It was harder now to recall her time with the Yeagers, much less with her own family. Her mother, from what she could remember, was always so gentle and kind, having rocked her to sleep at night while passing down tales her own mother had told her as a child. Carla was more like Mrs. Kirstein, Mikasa thought. Gentle, warm, like her own mother, but with a concealed spirit drawn out when necessary. She could recall the night she was brought to their home after being saved by Eren and Grisha. The woman had no qualms with being tossed a surprise addition to their family, no issues with adopting a traumatized little girl. In fact, she had immediately soothed Mikasa, drawing her into a hug, tending to her wounds, and warming up a pot of soup to fill her belly. Mikasa was almost shocked, despite her numbness, when the same gentle woman turned to her son and husband and admonished them for being so reckless. 

Although Eren loved his mother endlessly, her zeal meant they would butt heads quite often. She had no mind to listen to his antics of punishing bullies, much less his determination to escape the walls. Carla loved her son like he loved her, like he loved freedom, like he wished for change – sentiments that only grew stronger after the titans broke through, fueled by an intrinsic need for justice and revenge. Eren had dreams too big for the walls, too big for the island, too big for the world he ended up destroying. It had cost him everything. _Was it worth it?_ She wished she could ask him.

Her whirlwind of thoughts dissipated at the clatter of dishes at the table. Mrs. Kirstein and Jean had brought steaming pans of food over, finished with their cooking. 

Elise set plates and silverware on the tablecloth, gesturing to the spread. “Please, dig in! I hope you enjoy.”

Mikasa did not need to be told twice. She scooped boiled potatoes and butter onto her plate, along with a heaping portion of an omelet-like dish garnished with chives and sauce. It smelled exquisite, and a small first nibble let her know it tasted as good as it looked. She was halfway through her plate before she remembered to inhale.

“Do you like it?” asked Elise.

Mikasa flushed and nodded, restraining herself from demolishing the food as she remembered to remain polite. “It’s delicious.”

The woman blushed at the compliment. “Jean loved omelets as a kid. A little too much, actually!” she reached over to pinch at her son’s once-chubby cheeks, his mouth stuffed with food and unable to give a coherent protest. “But look at him now, so handsome. And he still loves it.”

Jean swallowed and bat away her hand, but his own face was red. He glanced at Mikasa. “Mom, I’m not sure we need to bother her with the details –”

“No, I think it’s sweet, Jean. Besides, I can see why you liked it so much,” Mikasa interjected, a sly grin on her face.

Elise clapped her hands and grinned at her. “See, Jean. What a kind girl. I must tell you about when Jean-bo was just a young boy. I can still remember the first day he went off to day school…”

The woman continued a tale about how her son would get bullied in his youth, returning home crying, but that recipe would always serve to dry his tears. Jean groaned at his childhood nickname and especially at the story, but he let her continue with her anecdotes. Mikasa listened as she ate, but her eyes were focused on Jean, admiring how attentively he listen to his mother, letting his lips tilt upwards when she mentioned a fond memory, only giving her a glare when she caught his eyes. Mikasa thought it was adorable, how he would try to act in his typical prideful self only to have his gentle nature spill over at the seams. Maybe he thought it made him weaker, but she thought the opposite. He wasn’t anything like the cadet he once was – it made her appreciate how much he had truly changed from that smart-ass teenager that envied Eren and picked fights daily. Years later, he was something else entirely, a man that cared so deeply for others that he let it hurt him. A man that would extend a hand when no one was looking. She wondered whether she had been seeing the wrong side of him before the war. He wasn’t just a good leader, a responsible person. He was gentle, secretly kind-hearted, slightly insecure, but nevertheless fully _him_.

He was and never would be Eren, she realized. He was not the boy so utterly consumed by his dreams that he had little time to look back, to look around, to regret the sacrifices he had made.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Jean realized that night that he would never be Eren. 

Returning home was annoying, initially, partly because he would have to endure his mother’s nagging but mostly because he was scared what it would do to him. He hadn’t felt the comfort of home for years, not since he had signed up as a recruit. It felt eerie, almost, to have to sleep in the same room as when he was a child, to eat the same foods, to listen to his mother tell the same tales after all he had been through. It reminded him of the dichotomy he had established in his life – the self-confident prick and the sensitive boy he had been as a child, constantly in flux. In all honesty, the image he had created as a soldier was a result of his upbringing: being bullied as a kid and then growing into a tall teenager had done volumes for his self-confidence, but it never fully erased the remnants of that insecurity, hence his clashes with Eren.

He had entered the cadets with the sole purpose of becoming an MP; to work hard and live a cushy, undemanding life as a result. Seeing someone so unabashedly determined to become a Scout, to change the world, to risk his life as if it meant nothing, sent something off within him. Even worse was the fact that a pretty girl was attached at Eren’s hip. He didn’t tell anyone explicitly, but he was jealous. Later inspiration eclipsed that envy, and that’s what made him change, made him follow the rest of the 104th into the Scouts and abandon the dream of a life he thought he deserved. Jean wondered whether he deserved it now, after everything had changed. Being also served as a reminder that his initial antics were a result of his recruitment, a magnification of a small part of his character to better erase the sensitivity and kindness that didn’t belong to a soldier. But now there was no reason to conceal it so. All in all he wasn’t like Eren. He never would be. And he didn’t know if that was okay yet. 

Hearing his mother give Mikasa practically a whole biography of his childhood over lunch only reminded him of that fact. It made him vulnerable, splayed out on the table for everyone to see. But it also made him pleased to see his mother so delighted at his presence, to listen to her fawn over him so sincerely. The girl across the table didn’t seem to mind at all, and if it affected the way she saw him, she didn’t show it. She only listened carefully, offering small remarks and polite smiles. He could tell she was still rigid, not fully adapted to their new situation, but slowly unraveling the timidness from her body. He had yet to fully consider the implications of their living conditions. Although they had technically lived together for the better part of a decade, this was inherently different, removed from duty and the responsibilities of a soldiers and infinitely more intimate.

After they had finished lunch and his mother had finally ceased her stories, they quietly cleaned up and recovered from their journey. Mikasa shut herself in her room for a well-deserved nap while Jean entered his childhood bedroom to unpack his luggage. 

It felt incredibly odd to be back in his childhood room, almost exactly how he left it years ago. The bed was just large enough, luckily, that his height wouldn’t be an issue, the sheets snow-white and covered with a familiar wool blanket. Even his old drawing book was tucked into a drawer in his desk, and he put his new one alongside it. He had chosen to keep the hobby as much of a secret as he could, even from his mother, as he found it slightly emasculating. But by the lack of dust and the cleanliness of the space, it was evident that his mom had taken the time to maintain and most likely snoop through her son’s room. He had little mind to go accuse of her of anything, however, not after he had just returned, and she had made him feel so culpable for not having replied earlier. 

Placing his new clothing and personal items around the space physically solidified the mesh between the two parts of his life. Yet again, he felt almost guilty for allowing himself to settle back down, not when there was so much waiting for them and so little he knew about handling it. He could admit, however, it was much easier to uproot himself from the base with Mikasa in tow. Her progress with accepting grief was admirable, especially in comparison with how she was a first: utterly and completely withdrawn from life. Now he could feel her physical presence again, less of a ghost and more of a human. A deeply broken human, but one that was fully capable of healing. Their silent understand was only further developed as they each faced their own issues, converging on that secret patch of roof at night. 

Sometimes he felt as if she were made of glass. Not because she was fragile -- far from it, actually -- but because there were moments when he believed he could see the battles in her mind, the feud between soldier and human. Eren and Armin’s death and the consequences ripped away her icey composure, leaving her bare, but that persona slowly crept back across her skin. He could see it in her dark eyes, so far removed from the emotion he had seen that night in the inn, even clouding her smiles. Was returning back to that former, hardened state truly healing? Or was it another coping mechanism? Hell, did that apply to him as well? He couldn’t say. There was so much they didn’t know, despite how much they had seen.

Jean sighed and lifted himself from the bed, where he had sat down unknowingly after his mind chose to wander. He needed a bath. And a good rest. Tomorrow, after all, he was due to report to his new workplace – one that, according to the descriptions in Levi’s documents, was bound to be brutal.

Jean stared at the cursed scruff covering his jaw in the mirror, residual steam from his bath taunting him as it swirled around the razor between his fingers in mock laughter.

His mother had been nagging him about the beard since the moment she had seen him. When Mikasa ventured upstairs for her nap and he lingered behind, she had even asked him when he had acquired the audacity to grow it and make her feel like an old hag, words unobstructed with the lack of a guest in their presence. He could practically see the tears welling in her orbs every time she laid eyes upon him, spouting remarks about how much he had grown. Therefore, he decided that perhaps it was time for it to go, or at least take a short break. Besides, he had only grown it out to look older after he had been assigned a new position as squad commander. It meant he was in charge of people much older than him – a fact that they rarely let him forget. So he grew out a beard thinking it would earn him some respect, savoring the fact that he wouldn’t have to master the technique of shaving or go searching for Connie’s help every week. His own hands simply were simply too large for the small razor. He would have half a mind to put the chore off, but starting a new position in the Garrison meant he needed to look presentable under his new prick of a boss.

Jean glared at the blade in his fingers, willing himself to conquer the task, still not even dressed from his bath. Walls be damned if he would go knocking on his mother’s door asking for help. The need to shave for the job and to dispel the nagging did not quite outweigh the embarrassment garnered by a nineteen-year-old requesting his mother’s assistance for such a simple task. He took a deep breath and decided that he would either do it himself or slit his throat trying. His fingers set the blade down momentarily to reach for shaving cream before he paused at the sound of the creaking door and soft footsteps.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in here.”

He turned to see Mikasa standing in the door frame, dressed in only a thin shirt and shorts, clearly ready to go to bed. There was suddenly too much skin on display, and he was made painfully aware of his own missing shirt, glad to pin the blame of his rising blush on the heat of the bath. She was in a similar state as well, eyes averted from his bare skin, focused on the wall behind him.

“… I just wanted to wash up before bed. Do you know how long you are going to take?”

He was quickly even more embarrassed, reminded of the task he was meaning to finish, eyes darting between her and the razor on the sink. A hand reached back to scratch at his neck. “Um… I’m not entirely sure.”

She frowned momentarily, wondering what he could mean, before she followed his gaze to the razor then to his face and lit up in realization. “Oh, I understand. Is the beard finally retiring?”

Rosiness further set into his cheeks. “Erm, yes. It was a good year, but Mom was pestering me, and I start the new job tomorrow. I don’t want to come off more important than I am.”

“… I see. But you don’t know how long it will take to shave?”

He was silent, unable to answer her question and refusing to meet her eyes except for briefly peeks. Hers suddenly widened in understanding of his predicament.

“Oh! No need to be embarrassed… it’s alright.”

The man grumbled in response, not comforted by her words and instead keeping his eyes trained on the mirror as he leaned against the sink. He wished she would just leave him to wallow in his own misfortune, but he could still feel her shadow as she stood at the entrance of the bathroom.

“… Would you want some help?”

He whipped around sharply to see her face heating. “What?”

“I used to help Armin and Eren. With cutting hair, shaving, all that stuff.”

Jean stammered, bewildered by her offer but also gratified. “Umm… it’s just been a while since I’ve done this –” he found her gaze again, attempting to appear indifferent. “…actually… Yeah. If you don’t mind, I could use some help.”

Mikasa blinked at him as if she was surprised he had accepted. “Oh. Okay. Good.”

She took a moment to pause and compose herself before sliding past him to pick up the razor and foam then looking up. Her eyes narrowed slightly in contemplation before she bit her lip. “I don’t think I can reach from here.”

“Erm…” he wanted to smack himself. The awkwardness froze the gears in his mind, rendering him unable to resolve the issue of his height. 

She offered a meek smile. “Sit on the edge of the tub.”

“Oh. Right. Good idea.” Jean was compliant to her authoritativeness, placing himself on the porcelain bath, seated so that he was eye-level with her. Mikasa trailed behind him, setting the razor on the surface beside him and twisting open the shaving cream to scoop it onto her fingers. .

A breath caught in his lungs when her fingers first swiped cool foam across his cheeks, and he hoped silently that it would do something to relieve his heated face. He could tell she was not unaffected by the closeness -- her attempt at a calm disposition barely hid the blush across her visage. Part of him deeply regret accepting her help and forcing himself to endure the closeness, while the other part plumed from the possibility that his presence affected her. The scene was quite compromising regardless -- wanton, almost – due to his shirt missing and the endless exposed skin of her milky thighs. He could only pray to keep away impure memories of the night at the inn from a month ago – ones that he had trouble quelling even outside her vicinity. There was no hope now, however, with her body so close that he only had to reach out a hand to be reminded of the feeling of her waist, to lean forward and taste her lips yet again. 

While she continued to smooth the liquid over his skin, Jean labored to keep his eyes away from her face, letting them circulate across other surfaces: the ceiling, the door, the sink, the floor, the fabric of her clothing, before he realized that was just as bad. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his wavering eyes, but fortunately Mikasa was intently focused on the task at hand. Eventually he decided it was better to look at nothing at all and closed his eyes, giving way to the sensation of her fingers sliding over his face, the soft coolness ever-so gentle, following the same path her lips had taken only weeks ago. The sensations would have been relaxing, lulling him to sleep, if it were not for the thumping of his heart. He only opened his lids when the touches stopped, finding her wiping her fingers on a towel before picking up the razor.

Jean quickly discovered that Mikasa Ackerman was adept with blades of all sizes. _Of course she was._ Her nimble fingers held the metal perfectly still, despite the tension between them – at least, he hoped that it did not only affect him. She lifted it to his face and scraped gently but effectively against his jaw. He let his eyes drift toward her to sneak a peek, if only for a moment, but he couldn’t seem to will them away one they found her. Mikasa was incredibly concentrated, teeth pressed down into her lip to inevitably leave little grooves – ones that he wished to smooth away with his tongue. It was startling how beautiful she looked, despite the late hours and the simple clothing. The warm light cast a glow on the elegant planes of her face, drawing some color into her pale skin. Her hair had grown longer, he noted. The bangs fell fully into her eyes now, and he wondered how she remained so skilled even with the obstruction of vision. The back now tickled her nape, raven strands barely touching the first knob of her spine. And her body – Walls, her body – could not be concealed through the clothing. Muscles poked through the fabric, straining from how her arms were raised, and he was certain if he looked any lower he would glimpse a sliver of abdomen from where her shirt had ridden up. It was the same body that had been writhing beneath him, he remembered, and as soon as the thought crossed his mind the images came flooding back and he couldn’t seem to recall how he had ever kept them at bay when she was _right there_. 

Only was his admiring gaze disturbed when Mikasa glanced up at him, faltering after she discovered his eyes already on hers. Both their faces flushed in embarrassment, and Jean quickly looked away, hoping the fluke wouldn’t result in a lapse in her concentration and subsequently the laceration of his throat.

“… So… the strategies department?”

He hummed in assertion as so not to move his mouth while she worked at his skin, wanting to kick himself for exacerbating the awkwardness so terribly that she felt she needed to break the silence.

“Sounds like it will be interesting at least.”

He spoke when she moved away from his face to wipe the blade off. “Would be, if Weilman wasn’t in charge of the operations.”

She frowned. “Isn’t that the guy that tried to shove a cannon ball down Eren’s throat?”

Jean nodded, and she shifted to the other side of his face, standing so close that he could feel her puffs of breath against him. However, it wasn’t her touch that bothered him anymore, but rather that he could smell her. It wasn’t her usual, clean scent, though. It was piney, woodsy, masculine -- she smelled like _him_. It was almost shameful how much it turned him on to realize that she must have used _his_ soap during her bath. And it was most certainly shameful that he began to imagine her bathing, lathering _his_ soap through her hair, down her arms, across her bare abdomen, around her breasts, between her --

“At least you will be useful to them, with how smart you are. Not sure what I can do for the engineers without Hizuru in tow.”

He almost missed her words, too focused on steadying his breaths and heart after the onslaught of perverted images, but the self-deprecation at the end caught his attention. It was his turn to frown now, and he suddenly reached up to grasp her wrists, forcing her to cease for a moment and look at him. “Don’t say that, Mikasa. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for. And it’s not just your friendship with Armin that made that true,” he said seriously. 

She searched his gaze for a moment, lips open as if they were astonished by his praise before they turned up into a nervous smile, eyes soft. “I suppose. But at the end of the day, I’m there as a political resource, not an academic one.”

“Hey,” she attempted to pull away her wrists, but he held them steady. “You’re an asset. No matter what. And they should treat you as such.”

Once again she found his amber eyes, giving him a weary tilt of her lips. Her usually stoic face broke into something almost appreciative at his words. As if she had needed them, offering a glimpse of the emotions she tended to keep secretive in return. “Thank you, Jean.”

She gave him no time to consider the implications of their exchange before immediately resuming her efforts, as if she were burying the moment. Those nimble fingers broke from his grasp to tap his chin, requesting that he tilt his head back to give her better access to his neck. Further bettering her position, she shifted to stand between his spread legs, so close that all he could smell was the fragrance on her hair. Once again, his lids clamped shut, allowing him to focus on the movements beneath his jaw and not be distracted by her nearness. Slowly and precisely, she dragged the cold metal carefully across the thin skin of his throat, paradoxically turning what would be a deadly weapon into a delicate instrument. It was exactly how she was: utterly lethal one moment yet elegant the next. He could picture her expression without taking another look – her brow would be slightly furrowed in concentration, bangs dangling into her vision, lips pulled in between pearly teeth. His heart raced, and he wondered whether she could feel it beneath her fingers or, better yet, if hers was equally as swift. It dawned on him how much he trusted her to be put in such a helpless position. He was splayed before her, vulnerable, defenseless, with a blade only inches from his throat. One false movement would sever his artery and bleed him out. She had him in her hands without even knowing it. Would she entrust herself to him in the same way? Give herself up to him, have faith in his actions? She had made progress in this regard during her time as a soldier – as a cadet she trust no one except herself, but as their missions grew in scope, she learned to confide in others.

But that’s not what Jean meant. It was no longer about being a soldier, a comrade. He wondered if she would trust him with her emotions, the ones she insisted on keeping behind closed doors, or even if she would trust him with her body once again, like their scramble with passion weeks ago. It only took a hint of these thoughts for Jean’s mind to recede into a wicked abyss – he began to imagine how she would look, how she would feel, how she would taste if she allowed him her trust, allowed him to take control. He wondered what she would look like if she sank to her knees before him, if his fingers twisted in her hair to make her look up from between his thighs, if her inviting lips parted and her breath fanned across intimate skin. _Damn_. He hated how much those thoughts of control made him equally as helpless, how much his emotions scrubbed away at his defenses. They felt unnatural, perverted, but always incredibly powerful. It did not help to remember their severe lack of clothing nor that they had been only minutes away from committing the full act at that inn. It was not as if modesty was urged in the Scouts; in fact, war made concerns like nudity and privacy rather trivial, even across the sexes. But there was something about their miles of exposed skin, her fingers pressing into his skin, his legs almost straddling her waist, all in his childhood home, that felt … domestic. A rather ridiculous notion considering they were both battle hardened soldiers.

Mikasa retreated to wipe the razor once again, forcing him to dismiss his thoughts. “Well, if you’re already going to endure working with Weilman, do me a favor and tell him I have some ideas about where he can stick that cannon next. Especially if he treats you poorly.”

He lowered his head to look at her and laugh at the unexpected remark, spotting the upturn of her own lips. Her cheeks were rosy, as if she were shy about being humorous, but held his gaze all the same to let him know she was serious. She stepped back, bringing a hand forward to grip his chin and rotate it around, inspecting her finished work. Deeming it satisfactory, she lifted a white cloth to his skin to wipe away the extra foam. The sensation felt odd against once-covered skin, now sensitive and exposed. 

“Finished,” she declared, treading back to let him go while wiping away the perspiration that had accumulated on her chin with the back of her hand. He lifted himself off the tub, intending to look in the mirror before he spotted a pale smudge of foam on her skin. 

“Wait a second, Mikasa, there’s—” before she could register his words, his hand reached forward and grasped her face as if it had grown a mind of its own.

Her eyes widened up at him and she inhaled, realizing that her chin was between his fingers. The entire world was silent for a moment, and Jean had no idea whether or not he was breathing. Only from her surprised expression did he fully understand that he had not imagined her soft face beneath his hand, nor that his finger was gently erasing speckle of white that she had managed to wipe onto herself. Quickly his fingers trekked higher, unable to resist, and he found his thumb tracing across her mouth, smoothing away ridges her teeth had torn into the plushness of her lower lip, just as he had desired to. They were so close that he only needed to lean down to feel it beneath his own lips. But equally as fast as it had arrived, his hand retreated rapidly from her skin and left it bare, finally realizing what he had done.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry. There was some foam on your face.”

She finally look away from him, face beet-red. “Oh. Thank you.” 

Thick silence followed for endless moments until she spoke.

“Erm. Well, you should take a look.”

“Oh, right,” he nodded, making his way to inspect his reflection all while cautiously smoothing his fingers down the strangely smooth skin of his jaw. 

The face that met his in the mirror was one that he hadn’t seen in a long while, completely devoid of facial hair. It would be a younger version of him from a year ago, if it weren’t for the air of maturity that had penetrated into his skin from the constant stress they had been under. It looked odd. Different, but not bad.

He found her eyes in the mirror. “You did a good job. How’d you learn?”

“Armin and Eren were pretty clumsy at first, so I did what I could,” she shrugged. “Sasha said that it should be like peeling a potato, but honestly I feel like its more like tiny ODM blades.”

Jean winced at the analogies, imagining the potato-girl assaulting his face ravenously like he were a potato or Mikasa slaughtering it as if it were a titan’s nape. “I’m glad you didn’t make those comparisons before you started.”

He crossed the space, finding his shirt and slipping it over his head, not noticing the way her eyes lingered on the planes of his back nor that she had begun to trace her lips with her own fingers, just as he had. After dressing and returning the razor to its place, he made his way to the door to leave her to her needs, but he paused for a moment before looking back.

“Does it look good, at least?” he asked with sudden confidence.

“Hm?”

“The beard, or lack thereof.”

“Oh…” she cocked her head, getting a better look at him before suddenly blushing and turning away to the sink. “I’m not sure.”

Jean’s shoulder’s slumped slightly downwards, disappointed by her indifference. He continued to venture out of the bathroom, sliding open the door to exit.

“Jean.”

He paused, turning around to find her staring down at the sink, unable to meet his eyes.

“You look good both ways…but… I liked the beard.”

His face flamed. “Oh. Well… Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” she responded, back still turned to him.

He exited quickly, shutting the door and strolling to his room while silently willing his hair to grow faster, job-be-damned.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Mikasa’s feet had taken root into the cobblestone below them, leaving her a roadblock in the hordes of Garrison soldiers sweeping through the courtyards.

In all honesty, she was not sure whether or not to be nervous. She did not tend to be a nervous person, anyways, but the thrum of her heart and the sweat on the back of her neck were the tell-tale signs of anxiety.

Perhaps it was that she felt awfully out of place in the courtyard. Not only was she disrupting the natural flow of pedestrian traffic, but she was dressed in civilian clothing, a splotch of dull color amidst the green. She had opted not to show up to Garrison headquarters in the Survey Corp. uniform during the ongoing animosity between the branches, so she ended up clad in simple slacks and a collared shirt until she could ask for the Garrison apparel. Although it still isolated her from the rest, the curious stares she was receiving were much better than the glares she would have been cast had she shown up with the wings of freedom stamped across her back. It was worse even that she had to show up alone – Jean had left at seven, while she was scheduled at nine, leaving her to navigate the city alone. 

She was partially glad, however, for their mismatched timetables after yet another too-close encounter the night before. Mikasa had no idea what she was thinking; after all that mantra she had drilled into her head about keeping her distance from their perfect life, to not impose herself onto their home, to keep herself constantly on her toes and ready to flee, she had offered to help him perform such a simple yet intimate task. Maybe she just wanted to prove herself useful, maybe she had felt pity that he was struggling with such a small chore, or maybe she had found the blush on his cheeks endearing, his fidgeting and nervousness… cute. She didn’t want to think about the last explanation, even if was the most likely. All that was left to do was forget about it, blame the decision on a miscalibration in her logic from a lack of sleep. 

It was hard to forget, though. She had never found such a task so tense, the blades even at one point feeling foreign in her hands, slipping through her fingers from the sweat that had accumulated on her palms – she had never experienced this issue with Armin, even Eren. It certainly shouldn’t have affected her to that degree -- it was a miracle she had not sliced his throat open. Despite wishing to remain professional, the realizations that she had been standing between his legs, that she had been only moments from leaning forward and recreating the violet bruises on his neck had left her a flustered mess. Most mortifying were his actions, however – she was almost sure her heart had stopped when he had brought his hand to her face, his thumb running across her lips like he was trying to memorize the ridges. And damn if that didn’t send an absurd flutter through her chest. Mikasa was not one to be subjected to those kinds of desire, or at least, she wasn’t supposed to be. Even with Eren, whom she had loved, it was a pure kind of want, one of longing and pining, entirely different to the foreign heat that had shot down her spine when Jean touched her so gently. After being so forcefully encapsulated into the position of a soldier, she had been left little room for menial pleasures, including sexual ones. Although, moments like those led her to understand why Sasha would sneak out in the middle of the night to meet with her chef lover, begging Mikasa to cover her alibi. Somehow, she didn’t believe that it was to “sample more dishes” like Sasha had initially insisted.

Those same feelings, however, complicated things greatly. If the night at the inn was not an isolated incident as she had contended, it meant that the new slurry of emotions were tangible, relevant, unavoidable. She wanted desperately to shut them off, as she had tried before, for her own sake and for Jean’s. But there was still something inexpressibly reassuring, gratifying, enthralling to see the heat in his eyes. The residual feeling of insecurity still occupied her mind, especially as they sat idle – her muscles remained intact, but they seemed increasingly obtrusive, sitting under her skin with no purpose beside making her body expend extra energy. Irrational worries like those were easily suppressed by irrational pleasure in realizing that someone wanted her for something other than being a weapon.

A burly Garrison guard bumped into her from behind, muttering a small apology, and Mikasa’s thoughts were ejected from her mind, shifting back to the present situation. The documents she had been provided were rather vague, suggesting only a time for her to arrive and that she needed to ask for the engineering department representative. It was rather laughable she thought – weren’t the geniuses in engineering, adept at conjuring designs and machinery, supposed to be organized and tactful? 

Mikasa swallowed and returned her attention to the sprawling three story structure. The headquarters were quite massive, evident of the sufficient funding the branch had received. Noticing now that the groups of soldiers entering the building were growing sparser, indicating that nine was approaching, Mikasa willed her feet forward to the entrance, choosing to ignore any stares she may have attracted from the residual masses. _Be a soldier._

Pushing past the double doors, she followed the soldiers down a hallway into a large room that she believed to be a lobby or common space. Quickly, the space emptied, as men and women spilled through the exits and into their respective places. She would have made a beeline to her engineering station, had she any idea where that might have been. Casting a glance around the space, she found the only remaining person to be hidden behind a newspaper, propped in a chair at a giant desk in the corner, the wood almost completely obstructed by cluttered papers. At the exit of the last soldier and slamming of the door, the only sound left was the light scraping of the reader’s thumbs as they flipped through the papers.

She sighed. There was no escape. Once again, her feet moved forward, almost detached from her body, until she stood right in front of the reader, directly in their line of vision if the newspaper was removed. Mikasa could now see that it was a young boy, perhaps only fifteen or so, with a mop of mousy hair and an unlit cigarette between his lips, attempting to exude an aura of maturity that was thrown by the sparse hair on his chin and the plumpness of his cheeks. It reminded her painfully of when she and the 104th had joined the Scouts as fresh-faced cadets, wearing the wings of freedom like a badge of honor and not a seal of death. It seemed rather cruel, she thought, that it was a standard to enter the military so young, even if it was for lazy jobs like this.

Despite the previous sound of her incoming footsteps against the stone floor, he had yet to look up, seemingly unaware of her looming presence. Another moment passed with another flip of a page. Frustrated, she cleared her throat to call his attention.

The boy’s eyes finally flicked upwards, meeting hers over the thin edge of the paper. Not even giving her enough care to lower the reading and sit up straight, he slid his gaze down her body, annoyance crossing his face as if he were bothered by her civilian clothing. He gave a small humph before he returned his attention to the newspaper.

“If you’re delivering breakfast for your husband, leave it on the table in the corner. Make sure it has his name written on it.”

Mikasa’s jaw dropped as she scoffed. She never thought herself arrogant or deserving of special treatment, but she had never been so blatantly disregarded in her life. After all the attention the Survey Corp had garnered, she had assumed everyone and anyone in the military would know who she was, but apparently removing the military garb removed the Ackerman persona with it. 

“I’m not here for any _husband_. I have been reinstated to a position in the engineering division.”

The brunette once again looked up at her, more annoyed than he had been before. Seeing that her face held no bluff, he sighed, folding up the newspaper lazily and setting it on top of the stacks of parchments haphazardly. “The uniform is required. Why aren’t you wearing it?”

 _So much attitude for a little runt…_ “I don’t have one. I’m a Survey Corp transfer.”

His eyes seemed to widen at the mention of the disillusioned branch of the military, offering no words or complaints as he began to search for some paper atop the wood amidst the rest. Mikasa, however, was still surprised. She had expected that they would know of her arrival, especially after how much Levi implied that he had put effort into securing this role for her.

“What’s your name?” The boy said, finally locating the document he had needed.

“Mikasa Ackerman.”

His eyes whipped up, face blanching. _Oh, so NOW he knew who she was._ He searched her eyes once again, mouth slightly agape and the cigarette fell from his lips, frozen as if he were waiting for her to tell him she was joking. “Ackerman… Mikasa… like of the Survey Corp…?”

She was incredibly tempted to roll her eyes, especially after his initial disregard. “Yes, like I said. I assume you know how to spell it?” she said pointedly, chin tilting down to the list of names in his hand.

His face paled further, and he frantically began scanning the paper in his hands, searching for her name and position. “I-I’m deeply sorry, Officer Ackerman. I had no idea you were coming today!” he kept apologizing profusely, and Mikasa began to think it was distracting him from quickly finding her information. “I wasn’t even supposed to be on secretary duty today, but Captain Brzenska told me that she was too busy –”

The boy shut himself up, embarrassed by how inefficiently he was looking for her name amidst the others. But Mikasa frowned. Brzenska? That was a familiar name, a figure she was sure she could have recalled only if she had a face to match it too–

“Oy. Martin. You better not be slacking off again,” a voice called from behind Mikasa, punctuated by a shutting door she hadn’t heard open and approaching footsteps. The boy, now identified as Martin, ceased his searching at the sound of the voice, paling ever further as he looked behind Mikasa and trained his gaze to the incoming Captain. 

Mikasa whipped around, eyes settling on a petite, blonde woman with brown glasses set across her nose, reading a thick bundle of papers in her hands as she spanned the room. She recognized her immediately – Rico, the Garrison captain that had helped in the Trost wall-plugging operation, the same one that had exposed to the court that Eren had attempted to kill Mikasa as a titan, much to the girl’s dismay. Disdain settled into her gut, knowing the bluntness that would await if they were to work in close quartes as the boy had suggested. The blonde had not changed much, hair still cut in that same short bob and eyes still cut with a permeating glare. However, as the woman approached the desk, Mikasa noticed that she walked with a slight limp on her right leg, one that surely had not been there four years ago when she had taken down titans single-handedly.

Noticing that the boy had not responded to her retort, Brzenska looked up from her papers, eyes catching on Mikasa’s tall figure. She halted, absorbing the girl in front of her for a moment before letting out an exasperated sigh and rubbed the bridge of her.

“I was hoping I had remembered your name wrong, Ackerman.”

Mikasa scowled at the rather rude comment. It wasn’t as if she had been happy to see the captain, either. “Well, don’t get your hopes up too much. I’m only here as a representative for the engineers, not for any of the defense legions. We won’t be seeing each other too much.”

Rico let out a short laugh, and Mikasa could almost feel the boy behind her flinch. Lifting the papers in her hand so that the front faced Mikasa, the captain gave a devious half-smile. “Unfortunately, Ackerman. That makes me your boss. Not sure who it’s unfortunate for, though.” Mikasa’s eyes flit to the sheet of paper, spotting that it was not filled with words, but rather a series of drawings and numbers, reminiscent of machinery designs she had once seen stacked on Hange’s desk. _Fuck, she didn’t mean --_

“Welcome to the engineering corp. Don’t worry, you’ll be much more than a representative…” she teased, sliding past Mikasa to drop the files into the hard oak of the desk with a clap that echoed against the stone. She then turned, not bothering to make eye contact even for a moment. “Hope you’ve refreshed you math skills recently… and that you know how to get stains out.” With than final remark, Rico strolled the final distance to the door.

“Martin, send those to Mitras for approval. Ackerman…” the blonde didn’t spare a glance back at the girl, instead flicking her wrist in signal, “Let’s get going. You’re already late.”

She casually flung the door open, sauntering out while masking the almost unnoticeable limp, somehow leaving Mikasa to stand dully in the dust. Somehow, Mikasa thought that shoving cannon balls down the throat with Weilman didn’t sound as bad anymore…

After five o’clock had hit, Jean could barely hold himself upright. Weilman had worked him to the utter bone, treating him more as a machine to deliver documents among department and relay messages rather than a living, breathing human with needs. Although his muscles had sat idle for over a month now, meaning the running back and forth strained them, it was the mental exhaustion that had drained him the most – Weilman’s spitting demands made him miss Levi’s cool rage. At least the latter didn’t give him a headache. The man had even spewed a rant about how Jean’s civilian attire was a direct disrespect to the military, as if he had any other clothing options besides his Scout uniform (which probably would have incited an even longer lecture). After his shift had ended a long ten hours later, Jean’s sore legs reignited with fervor at the thought of escape, leaving his position without so much as a small nod to his superior, though he was unsure whether the repercussions he would have to endure the next day for disobedience would be worth it. On his way out, he had almost forgotten to pick up the uniform slung over his arm, head too fogged up with fatigue.

His comrades were friendly enough, at least, having seemingly bonded nicely from the strain of their commanding officer’s wrath, even sympathetic for his relation to the Scouts. They offered tips and recommendations on how to best survive and mistakes to avoid. It had felt incredibly degrading to be treated merely like delivery man for the headquarters, especially after earning himself such a high position in the Survey Corp – in fact, he had raced around the hall so often that the actual mail courier had asked _him_ where a room was. Despite his many trips through the halls, he did not once visit the engineering department, nor did he see Mikasa since breakfast that morning. He felt bad leaving her to fend for herself, but then again, he was sure that she could handle the situation better than he ever could. Hell, she had even stood up against Levi when they had first joined the Survey Corp – no commanding officer would break her now.

Her shift supposedly ended at five as well, so Jean had taken refuge in the courtyard, back leaning against the stone wall to relieve the strain of weight from his legs. Most of the Garrison had already filtered out of the building, the men and women returning home after a long day. He spotted Mikasa exiting the entrance, a look of contempt visible even from a distance. As she approached, he noticed that her once-white collared shirt was stain with countless grey smudges the Garrison coat over her shoulders doing little to hide them, even extending onto her face, absurdly. He thought his day had been rough, but if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought they had her cleaning the ash from chinmenys. She trudged closer, her aura of disdain swamping him and sending anxiety down his spine. 

“Hello,” he offered, hoping it didn’t tip her over the edge of her anger.

She gave a small grunt in reply, continuing her path out of the courtyard without waiting for him to follow. Jean pushed off the wall, channeling what energy he had left to move his feet forward and trail her heated footsteps. 

“Was it that bad?” he asked, genuinely curious as to what the engineers, a group of skinny, smart soldiers who saw no combat could have done to enrage the same girl who wasn’t scared of an army of titans. 

She scoffed, angling to face him and turning over her palms to reveal the same grey stains on her clothing engulfing her palms – graphite, he realized. “They had me copying designs for eight hours straight. I’ll probably be drawing circles and squares in my sleep.”

Jean gave a laugh before it was silenced by a deadly glare. “Erm… the engineers did that? I had no idea they were so brutal.”

Mikasa shook her head as they walked. “No. Not the engineers. Just their captain. Do you remember Brzenska, from Trost four years ago? The one from Pyxis’ squad that helped us plug the wall?”

He nodded, recalling the vague memory of a woman a few years older than them who had delivered their instructions after the madness in the city. “What about her?”

She scoffed. “No idea who died and made _her_ in charge of this department She’s a piece of work. Back then and especially now.”

Jean struggled to keep back a smile at the irony, but words escaped from his lips before he could trap them. “No offense, Mikasa, but so are you.”

The scowl she sent was enough to make him regret ever speaking, but it was dissolved with a sigh as she brought up smudged hands to rub at her temples, smearing the graphite that for a moment he wanted to rub away with the sleeve of his shirt. “You’re right, sorry. How was Strategies?”

Jean was surprised by her unusual concession, but even more so that she had seemed to care about his day. “I’m pretty sure I walked five miles through the building. Weilman is a menace to the city.”

A small smile graced her lips. “At least we’re suffering together,” she admitted. Jean nodded, agreeing that his pain would have been amplified had she come out of her job happy and smiling, finally liberated from the many instances of mutual suffering they had experienced.

“Let’s hope my mom made a good dinner to make up for it.”

She seemed to brighten at the mention of his mother, the worry and contempt slipping from her face into a genuine smile. “She’s a really good cook, isn’t she?”

“Erm… yeah, I guess,” he stammered, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his neck awkwardly. His mother’s cooking skills _were_ in fact exceptional, but he wasn’t sure why the comment made him so uneasy. 

Her gaze fell on his, the small smile on her lips almost melancholy now. “She loves you a lot, you know.”

His eyes widened and fell to the ground, unable to confront her stare. Color rushed into his cheeks, the words flustering him greatly. Of course she loved him. She was his mother. But he understood what Mikasa meant. He was one of the only ones out of their friends to still have a parent. His dad may have left years ago, but it never really mattered to Jean. His mother’s love made up for both parents, and he had never felt anything missing in his childhood. He had only survived all the bullying as a young child because of his mother’s perpetual affection and reassurance -- coming back to see her after almost four years made him feel guilty for abandoning her when she had never left his side. The widening distance between parent and child was natural, he believed, especially for teenagers like himself who grew to become annoyed at the affection they offered. But now, he understood that he should have cherished it, returned it, rather than have disregarded it as he had, wishing there was an easy way to span that gap. Maybe it was time he made up for it. 

His amber eyes grew soft, still trained on his moving feet, edges of his lips tilting upwards gently. “Yeah…I do know.”

They spent the rest of the walk back to the house in comfortable silence, letting the gradually fading light in the sky wash over their skin, cleansing their souls from the residual worries of their jobs. Jean turned his attention to the city around him. It had been years since he had been back in Trost for more than a few hours or overnight, but not much had changed. Horse-drawn carriages clambered through the streets, hooves beating down upon cobbled stone creating a steady rhythm. Pedestrians lined the streets, happy and noisy, as they walked alongside the shops and buildings lining the street. It was odd to see people out and about, carefree and restless despite everything that had been lost in the outside world. A strange paradox, he thought, that five years ago Paradis had lived exactly like this: in ignorance and bliss. Then they discovered the rest of humanity, only to destroy it and regress to that naïve paradise yet again, the only difference that its existence was tainted with the blood of millions of innocent souls. _Was it worth it?_ He wished he could ask Eren questions like that. Jean couldn’t pretend to understand his motivations. Was it to avenge the death of his mother? To protect Historia and his child? To truly save the people of the island? Would Jean have done the same, if he had been in Eren’s place?

“Jean, are you alright?” Mikasa asked, and Jean was drawn back to reality by her worried expression. He was unaware that they had arrived back, now standing on his front porch. He gave her a small affirmative glance, quelling her concern.

“I’m fine. Let’s go inside.”

Jean pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking the sturdy front door and pulling it open. Immediately, the smell of seasoned meat and roast hit him, filling his nostrils and eliciting an embarrassingly loud rumble from his stomach. His face reddened at the small giggle Mikasa let out while slipping off her shoes, only to have her own face flush from the matching groan that echoed from her own gut. 

“I guess we are both pretty hungry,” he laughed.

Almost as if on cue, his mother sauntered into the front hall, apron strapped across her body and wooden spoon in hand, waving it at them as if it was a weapon. 

“Don’t think I didn’t hear that! I told both of you to pack a lunch. Aren’t soldiers supposed to be good at taking orders?”

Jean rolled his eyes. “Didn’t you also say sons were incapable of listening to their mothers?”

That earned him a scowl and a whack to the shoulder with the spoon. The woman turned then to Mikasa with a softer, less accusing gaze, before it ignited into sharp concern when she spotted the stains on her shirt and skin. 

“Goodness, child, did they have you cleaning the fireplace?!” his mother grabbed her cheek with her free hand, wiping away at the smudges with care. Mikasa froze under her touch, startled by the sudden affection.

“No ma’am. Just had to work with a lot of charcoal and graphite.”

The woman let out a relieved sigh, glad to know they hadn’t been mistreating her, at least not in the way she thought. “Ah, I see. I can help take the stains out -- Jean used to get them constantly, especially all over his sheets.”

Her son then froze, immediately understanding that she was referring to his discrete hobby, one that he had maintained since he was a kid. He began to interrupt, heart hammered in his chest with worry that his mother would expose that soft side of him to Mikasa, but to his dismay the girl spoke first.

“What do you mean?” she queried, her eyebrows in a curious tilt.

“Oh, Jean was quite the artist when he was –”

Jean instantly was set into action, letting out a small groan as he placed a hand over his mother’s shoulders and mouth, shutting her up before she revealed anymore embarrassing details and willing her away from Mikasa, who still had an amused expression. “Alright, enough, Mom. Mikasa needs to go bathe, I’ll help you with dinner.”

The woman chuckled longingly, a hand reaching over her heart, but she complied to her son’s actions, letting him guide her to the kitchen and hiding a small smile behind his hand before she pushed it off. “Jean is right, Mikasa. Please, go wash up. I have left some clothes in your room; I hope you don’t mind!” 

The girl nodded, heading up the stairs and leaving Jean alone with his mother. He let out a sigh of relief, releasing her shoulders to lean exasperatedly over the kitchen counter. His eyes flicked up to find his mother suppressing a giggle. His spine shot straight up, and a harsh scowl pointed at her.

“What’s so funny?”

She waved a hand, no longer attempting to conceal her amusement. “Oh, nothing, Jean-bo. Just wondering how you have grown so much in some ways yet so little in others.”

“What?!”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Girls were never your strong suit, you know.”

Jean scoffed at her comment, knowing full and well that it was true but also that he certainly did not need his _mother_ lecturing him on matters of romance. He sauntered over to her, snatching the wooden spoon out of her hand dramatically before making his way to the pot of cooking stew on the stove.

“You said we were going to cook, not play matchmaker.”

His mother sighed yet again at her son’s antics, joining him to finish preparing their meal. 

Almost a week had passed since they had begun their “employment” (more like servitude) in the Garrison. Much to Jean’s dismay, Weilman’s harsh treatment did not seem to lessen, as if those first days were mere conditioning for the infinite amount of paperwork and delivering he would be responsible for. “Initiation” he had called it. Mikasa did not seem to fair any better, every night returning with clothes stained with lubricants and charcoal, even sore muscles from lifting heavy equipment. Rico Brzenska surely was exploiting every single one of her strengths. Jean had really only seen her on short lunch breaks and in passing, when they would nod to each other silently and continue on with their work. Once again, he compartmentalized – this temporary position may have been brutal, but it was a routine that imposed order on the chaos that had been ever present in the past few years of his life. A constant, just as Mikasa had oddly become. He no longer felt so weak for being at home, for spending lost time with his mother, for enjoying the presence of a girl he could no longer deny having feelings for. Little events like dinner and nightly strolls around the city became his salvation. But then again, it scared him on many fronts. Settling into anything was a false hope in a life that continuously proved everything could be ripped out from under them in an instant. There was still the trial, and everything beyond. Besides, shouldn’t he want more than a measly Garrison job? More than to simply live with his mother, comfort in favor of ambition? He let out a sigh. Of course, that would also require knowing what he wanted in the first place.

His head has almost collapsed onto the ochre wood of his small desk, tucked in the corner of a cluttered office space. It was filled mainly with officers and strategists, all working diligently to finish up their work. Jean glanced at the clock, noting it was five till five. Almost time to go back to the house. Mikasa had sent a note earlier, informing him that the engineers had some business in another part of the city, so she had already been most likely dismissed, leaving him to return alone. He had already finished taking notes on a thick set of plans he had been handed that morning, annotating it for important details and correcting mistakes. The whole division had lost its purpose with the fall of the walls, so they were now in charge of relocation plans and distribution as the government decided to sponsor more movements outside of the former boundaries of the walls. Although the south had mostly been developed, the northern shore remained an enigma, so the Garrison had taken up responsibility for leading efforts while the Scouts were still mistrusted. Despite the simplicity of the work, it had kept his mind completely occupied during the day, even spilling into his nights when he had to bring some documents home. The amount of paper Weilman had deposited on his desk yesterday had Jean praying for the tree population on the island. His hands flew up to rub his temples, nursing the small headache he had acquired from a lack of rest. 

A sudden slam onto the desktop startled him, his hands flying away from his face and for a moment frightened he would be looking up into the enraged eyes of his superior. Instead, he found two familiar faces – a short, blonde man named Leon and his friend, Elias, who was slim and tall with a mop of black hair. They had been some of the more sympathetic officers in his division, even helping him with some relays and deliveries when Jean had been too busy to complete them. They had not, however, had much of a conversation outside of work details, so he was not sure why they had so suddenly appeared at his desk. 

“Uh…” Jean took a moment to straighten himself, sitting back in his chair and lifting himself from his slumped position over the desk. “What can I do for you?”

The blonde, Leon, gave a stout laugh, patting a firm hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Relax, Kirstein. Get out of work mode, geez.” Elias gave him an affirmative nod, signaling him it was okay to unwind. Jean finally released the tension in his shoulders, sighing as he leaned further into the back of the chair.

“Sorry if I’m on edge. I’ve been worked to the bone.”

Leon gave an understanding tilt of his lips, as if he had been through the same hell Jean was now forced to brave. “Don’t worry about it, Weilman can be a dick, but he’ll warm up soon enough. Anyways --,” he said while leaning backwards on a nearby desk, “we were wondering if you were free after hours. Elias some others and I were going to head to a tavern a few streets down. It’s a Friday tradition, and you’re one of us now.”

Jean frowned for a moment. He wasn’t much of a drinker, truth be told, and he definitely didn’t need a lecture from his mother if he wobbled home drunker than a mmule. “Erm… not really sure… I’m kind of tired.” He intentionally did not mention that his mother would have been worried – he didn’t need any of their teasing.

“Awww… c’mon Kirstein. It’ll be fun. Drinks on me.” 

Even Elias, who tended to be more reserved, spoke up. “He’s right. You need to relax.”

Jean sighed, understanding their arguments but also not wanting to endure the wrath of his mother for coming home drunk and late… even Weilman couldn’t compare to her wrath. 

Sensing his hesitation, Leon spoke up again. “If you’re worried about getting home late, don’t worry. I told my friend from engineering to let that friend of yours know that you’ll be helping us after hours.” He gave him a sly wink, and Jean shook his head, his expression slightly amused at the fact that the ordeal had been pre-planned. It would be good for him to get out and make some friends, especially with comrades, and now that the issue of his lateness was resolved, all he had to do was promise himself not to get drunk. Or at least, not _too_ drunk. After all, he didn’t have to stay long.

He gave a final sigh. “Alright. I’ll come.” Leon gave a smirk and patted him on the back, while Elias nodded. 

What did he have to lose?

Apparently, a lot. Mostly his composure. 

It had proved to be an extremely difficult feat to convince Leon and Elias that he was not going to indulge. As soon as they had entered the dimly lit tavern, Leon had called an order for several pints of beer to the bartender, collecting a glass and setting it in front of Jean before the group had even sat down at a table. 

“I told you, I’m not drinking,” Jean insisted.

“C’monnn Jean. We brought you here to relax. One beer is going to keep you lucid enough to get home perfectly fine.”

A few other officers he didn’t quite recognize had joined them, and they grunted in approval of Leon’s words. Some had already ordered a second drink. Jean sighed, too tired to argue further and endure their pressure. One beer would not hurt.

Except, it would not be just one beer. 

After the first glass was emptied, Leon had found it incredibly easy to shovel more drinks in front of his uptight comrade, even switching to a dark amber liquor that made Jean wince at the bite as it settled in his gut. At some point, after four, five, maybe even six drinks, all the tension had left his body, flushing away with his sobriety and leaving him warm and bubbly. It soon became incredible easy to laugh and talk with his comrades, finding them to be especially agreeable after a few drinks. Even Elias, who seemed quiet and brooding, let up incredibly, joining them in laughter and discussion. 

Jean was nursing yet another pint when he felt a firm slap to his shoulder, looking up to find the reddened face of Leon. He slid out a chair and plopped himself down, lips plastered in a sly smile. 

“So, Kirstein.” He tilted his chin forward to indicate at something behind Jean. “What’d you think of them?”

Jean turned to see a group of women their age huddled at the bar, dressed in long skirts and casual blouses. They were chatting amongst themselves between sips of their drinks, some ever-so discretely passing glances at the Garrison soldiers with coy smiles and laughs. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Jean half-slurred, eyebrows pressed together, unsure if it was the alcohol that kept him from understanding what the man meant to suggest.

Leon rolled his eyes while his smile grew bigger. “C’mon, don’t tell me you didn’t notice?” He leaned closer, alcohol wafting from his breath, and whispered too loudly in his ear. “The girl closest to us keeps looking at you.”

Jean cast his eyes toward the group, spotting the girl of interest. She was a small thing with pale skin and strawberry blonde hair, and he was right – she had already slid her eyes over to Jean, a finger circling the rim of her half-finished glass. Her lipstick-stained mouth formed a shy smile when she noticed that his attention was on her, blushing prettily. 

He groaned, uncomfortable with the insinuation. Jean was way too drunk to talk to girls, especially ones that he didn’t know and wasn’t interested in. Sure, she was pretty, but not really his type. “Erm…sorry, Leon. I’m not really interested in all that –” He was interrupted by an arm slung over his shoulder.

“Pft, I don’t believe that for a second. We are men, after all. No shame in a fling or two, maybe even a single-night ordeal, if you’re into that,” the blond teased. Jean’s face, however, grew incredibly hot, not just from the alcohol, as he began to remember some illicit memories of a certain attempt at a “single-night ordeal.” Unfortunately, even Leon noticed Jean’s silence and tomato-red face, his eyes widening as if had put the pieces together in his head.

“Don’t tell me… do you already have a girl? Is it that Ackerman girl, the oriental that you go home with? I thought she was just a comrade –”

Jean shrugged the arm off his shoulder, scowl still intact. “Stop, Leon. It’s not your business.”

“That’s some bullshit, we’re going to be friends, of course it’s my business,” he slurred, pulling his glass to his mouth. “She’s pretty, but seems kind of cold. Not sure if it’s my ideal woman, but to each their own.”

Jean rolled his eyes then reached yet again for his glass, pulling it to his lips and inhaling the bitter liquor in one go. He would need it, since the man did not seem as if he wanted to let up, plus he was almost insulted by the remark. “She looks cold, but it’s just a front. On the inside she’s someone else. I know it. I’ve seen it.” Jean looked down at the wooden table, fiddling with the cool cup between his hands. “You wouldn’t believe how caring she is, on the inside, how much she can give up for another person. It’s incredible. Don’t even get me started on how strong she is. Walls, she could crush me to a pulp in a second, and sometimes she acts like it too. She’s so incredibly strong, but so weak too. I just wish she would talk to me... Even if she doesn’t want to. Fuck…does that make me selfish? Or just a masochist?” he asked, finally looking up from the table to see Leon staring at him like he had grown a third eye, mouth agape and eyes concerned.

_Fuck._ Even in his inebriated state, he could tell that he had greatly embarrassed himself. 

Leon cleared his throat, standing up and patting his shoulder in reassurance. “Not sure if I’m too drunk or not drunk enough to talk about things like that. You have fun with it. Anyways, is the blonde fair game then?”

“Huh?”

“Y’know, the one at the bar who was looking at you. If you’re uninterested, mind if I try and take a stab at it?” he asked, a sly twinkle in his eyes and grin.

 _Oh, right, that._ “Yeah, it’s fine.”

The blonde chuckled and gave Jean a wink before smoothing out his hair and heading for the group at the bar. “Wish me luck!” he exclaimed over his shoulder before sauntering the final distance to the pretty girl.

Jean grumbled to himself, still slightly ashamed about his soliloquy, hoping that the man was too drunk to remember anything. He eyed Leon’s abandoned drink for a moment before sighing and bringing it to his own lips, pulling the liquid into his gut in a single swallow. Sitting alone, he chose to let his mind enjoy the absence of thought enticed by the alcohol rather than ponder longingly about other matters. He wondered what Connie was doing. He sure knew how to drink and was surely enjoying guzzling expensive wine Niccolo would scold him for, despite the fact that he deserved the best alcohol there was to offer. Jean had decidedly freed himself from the guilt of indulging earlier, choosing not to care about his mother’s reaction until it literally slapped him across the face. 

“Kirstein, you live in the business district, right? C’mon, we’re heading out!” shouted a light-brown haired man a few years his senior. Jean had learned that his name was Finn, and they had sparked a conversation earlier since it seemed that the brunette had been Jean’s predecessor as Weilman’s slave. His eyes found the ornate clock on the wall, absolutely astounded when he found the hours almost heading into the morning. A glance outside told him it was the dead of night. Time had slipped away, and he suddenly was regretting his decision to ignore his mother’s inevitable wrath. He stood abruptly, following Finn and another soldier as they exited the tavern, but suddenly finding the drunkenness much harder to withstand while moving. Swaying slightly, he pushed himself forward, following the laughs of his comrades and begging whatever higher being that controlled the world his mother would be merciful, but knowing that it would not spare him.

Fifteen minutes later, Finn had delivered Jean onto his doorstep, leaving him to fumble with his keys and clamber inside. Finding a dark space with no lights on, he sighed in relief, taking effort in slipping of his shoes and tiptoeing toward the staircase. As soon as his toes hit the first stair, a sharp flick followed by a spill of light made him flinch violently. He turned slowly to find his mother, dressed in a robe and clearly ready to sleep, sitting on the armchair, a small gaslight illuminated at the end table. _Fuck_.

“Jean Kirstein.”

He gulped, feeling just as he had as a kid when she had discovered that he had been slipping money from her wallet to go buy new charcoal pencils or when she had found a weeks-worth pile of vegetables he had refused to eat in a flowerpot: absolutely mortified. “Yes, mother?”

She stood up, wrapping the robe tighter around herself before grasping the gas lap and crossing the room, strolling toward her son like a wolf stalking a lamb. 

“You had me worried sick, Jean. I understand you’re a grown man, and you have to have your fun, but you can’t leave your poor old mother wondering whether or not you would return!” she whisper-yelled, getting so close that Jean knew it was only moments before she could detect the alcohol on his breath. 

“Fortunately for you, Mikasa is asleep, so I won’t be lecturing you any further –” she paused for a moment, scrunching her eyebrows as she noticed what Jean prayed she wouldn’t. “Is that… Jean! Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking! Ugh….” She sighed, shaking her head in disappointment. 

Jean, now past any form of rational thought, could only give her a an awkward smile. “Um… sorry, Mama. Umm… it won’t happen again!” he exclaimed, as if the name he had not called her since he was a child would make up for what he had done.

His mother sighed, rubbing her temple to alleviate her incessant headache, before turning to go to her room. “We’ll talk about this later, don’t think for a second you’re off the hook…for now, go to bed. And wash away that god-awful smell.” 

Watching the light of her lamp disappear down the hall, Jean let out a strained breath. That could have gone so much worse. He silently thanked his mother’s upmost devotion to good hospitality and Mikasa’s early sleep schedule, heading up the creaky stairs with a hand gripping the wall to keep his balance. A warm bath and the soft sheets of his bed sounded absolutely exquisite, a temporary haven before the unavoidable headaches that would plague him the next day.

_The landscape blazed; cliffs engulfed in residual flames from the colossal. Mikasa let out strained groans, her right had barely able to secure a grip on the scorching, crumbling stone to keep her from falling into the ocean below. Her fingers wrenched down with all her strength onto the rocks, but she was losing her purchase, muscles weakening and palms burning._

_“Mikasa…you have to let go…it’s too late.”_

_She glared down at the boy, her left hand gripping tightly against his, keeping him from plunging. “NO. Armin. I won’t!” she grit her teeth, jaw wrenching as she searched her body for any strength to pull her them up. If only she could reach her gear and save them both… Her determination was interrupted by a pitiful sob, from both the pain and the knowledge that maybe there was nothing more she could do. They would both die there. Armin had exhausted all his stamina and was unable to transform, his body already bloodied and legs half-missing. It was incredibly hard to focus as well, despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins, her thoughts clouded by the screams of dying people and the crashing sea below._

_“…please,” he sobbed now, “you have to let go. I’m too heavy… we’ll both die if you don’t LET GO!”_

_Mikasa turned to look at him, tears filling both their eyes. She hated it. She hated it so much, that he was right. She wanted to look away so badly, to refuse to listen to him, to be able to do SOMETHING to save her family for once in her life. She didn’t want to see the blood in his hair, on his skin, the bones dangling from his legs… she was going to throw up._

_“Armin,” his name left her lips in a barely-audible gasp. She could hardly see him anymore, eyes clouded with flowing tears. Her index finger slipped from the rock. “…I can’t… Armin I can’t!”_

_He smiled, despite everything, looking down and violent waves shoving against the rocky boulders below. “You can.” His blue eyes met her once again, sorrowful. “Thank you Mikasa… thank you. For protecting me. For caring for me. For being there for me.”_

_She wanted to scream as a second finger slipped away. NO. He couldn’t give up, not like this…there had to be a way… if she called for someone to help, had someone pull them up and save them. She tried so desperately to shout for someone, but all that came out was his name._

_He glanced down again. “It was all worth it, I think…Mikasa, we got to see the ocean, didn’t we?”_

_A third finger tumbled from the ledge, leaving her muscles screaming in agony, only moments away from death._

_His eyes met hers for a final time. “Just… promise me to stop Eren, alright?” She couldn’t respond, throat to choked up from sobbing. “And tell Annie I’ll miss her. That I regret not being able to be there.”_

_A cry escaped his mouth, his teeth grinding together, as if he were finally registering what this meant. He searched her eyes silently, begging for her to respond to his words, forcing her hand. Everything had left her soul when she cracked open her lips._

_“O-okay… I promise… Armin. I promise. I’m so sorry.”_

_The smile that graced his face was finally genuine, thankful, simultaneously appreciating and grieving everything that had happened up until then. How could he be so happy? Rage filled her veins. No. She would not let him die, her lungs filling with air as preparing to tell him they would survive, that he could defeat Eren, that he could tell Annie himself, before she was interrupted._

_“Goodbye, Mikasa.”_

_His hand let go of hers._

Mikasa woke up screaming, skin covered in tears and cold sweat. Her body trembled violently, her mind racing in confusion and panic, unable to distinguish where she was or what had happened.

_He’s dying. They’re dying. He’s dead. They’re dead. Everyone was dead dead dead --_

Her heartbeat hammered into her skull, blocking her ears and only made worse by the gasping breaths that entered her lungs but brought no salvation, did nothing to put her senses into motion. Her head throbbed, palms engulfed in the same searing pain as when she had held on for dear life, one then utterly cold from when Armin’s grasp had slipped form hers.

_Armin Armin Armin Armin Armin._

She knew it wasn’t real. It was all in her head. She was no stranger to nightmares, but it had been so long since she had felt one so strong, so real. The memory engulfed all of her senses, blocking her from reality. In the darkness of the room all she could see was Armin’s form plunging downward into the sea below. Bile rose in her throat as she imagined his body splattering against the rocky shore below, despite that she had clamped her eyes shut to hide her from the gore. 

It was truly as if she were reliving the moment, a month later, suffering the same pain of watching him die, watching him leave her and beg her to do something she didn’t think she could. But she had. She had killed Eren. Why was she in so much pain, even still? Why wouldn’t it go away?

The panic did not settle – it became furious. She suddenly could see the light leave the eyes of every person she had ever loved, cared for. Her mother. Her father. Carla. Hannes. Sasha. Armin. Eren. Why did it have to be them? Why not her? Why did they leave her alone? Why did she have to feel their heartbeats fade, their skin grow cold beneath her fingers? What even kept her going anymore?

She was fully crying now, unable to stifle her sobs, bloodied palms raised to her face, clutching at her head and begging her mind to _stop_. All she wanted was the suffering to stop. She needed something. She needed to feel someone alive, she needed to know she wasn’t alone, that there was anything worth fighting for, that there was a sliver of hope left in the cruel, merciless world. 

Before she could comprehend what she was doing, Mikasa ripped the blanket from her form, exposing her skin to the chill air and sending shivers down her spine. One foot hit the floor. Then the other. She was standing, then trudging over the creaky floor on the balls of her feet, tears still flowing, but drawn to a particular room, as if she had some intuition beneath her subconscious as to what exactly she required to quell her panic.

She cracked open the wooden door, the slight squeak of the door echoing against the walls. In the dim moonlight, she could recognize a sleeping form in the bed, soundly resting on his side, arms curled in front of his chest. Before she could contemplate her intentions, Mikasa shut the door, moving to the bedside and lifting the thick blanket, crawling in aside the warm body that was now stirring.

Jean’s eye’s cracked open, widening when he saw Mikasa climbing into his bed, concern blooming on his expression at the sight of her shiny, tear-slicked cheeks. “Mikasa… what? Why are you crying?”

Her body still shook, pulse still violent, skin still clammy, mind still full of death and fear and loss and loneliness. 

“Jean…” she sobbed, scooting closer so that she was mere inches away from him. “Please…please…just let me stay. I need to know. I need to know you’re alive. Please.”

He flinched at her desperate plea, confused but distraught by her clear signs of panic, allowing her body to sink into the mattress next to his. “Okay, okay…”

As soon as the words left his lips, her body slid down, arms shooting out to wrap around his ribs before her head lowered to his chest, ear pressed directly over his heart.

_Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump._

Tears of happiness interrupted those of sorrow, relieved sobs wrenched from her throat. _Alive. He was alive._ She nuzzled her head further into the soft, warm fabric of his shirt, letting the steady thrum of his heart lull her back into reality, let it erase away the death, the screaming, the pain, knowing that the blood pumping through his veins was warm and alive, not dead and cold. Her own heart stopped its race, her mind softening its battle within her skull. 

Jean was still shocked by the breaths against his skin, the girl wrapped against his body, wondering if this was a residual effect of the alcohol from a few hours ago. But his arm began to slink across her form, the solid weight of her body and the sweat on her skin telling him that this was very much real. He pulled her closer to his chest, attempting to coax away the sobs escaping her lips and the shaking of her bones. She remained pressed against his ribcage, intently listening to his heartbeat as if it were a last thread of sanity feeling so fragile beneath his palms he thought she would shatter.

Actions still slightly motivated and encouraged by the liquor, Jean brough his other hand to her skull, stroking her hair through his fingers, wishing desperately he could soothe away the suffering her mind had brought out of that deep and horrific abyss of despair.

“Mikasa, what’s wrong? Please tell me,” he whispered into her hair.

Her fingers clutched tighter to his shirt, raspy breaths attempting to form words in her dry throat. “I-I saw Armin die… I saw them all die again,” she choked, “it felt so real… why did it feel so real?” 

She felt the arm around her clutch even tighter, the other hand sliding down to trace gentle circles into her nape. “I’m sorry, Mikasa.” He knew that this was common among soldiers, reliving traumatic events of the past in such detail that it was as if they had been transported back to the past. But he had no clue what to do to help except let her listen to his heart, secure her in his arms. It felt right but wrong at the same time. He hated watching her crumble, especially after being so strong, and he hated knowing that her loss would never stop hurting – it would only get easier to endure.

A tiny, almost inaudible whimper left her lips and traveled through his chest. He was alive. They were alive. Her heart and breathing had become even less erratic, and she finally felt fully grounded, intact. “Thank you. I—I’m the one who should be sorry,” she stumbled over her words, now embarrassed after some of the panic had been alleviated, “I just needed to make sure… I was so scared.”

“I know.”

Her breath wafted against the fabric on his chest, warm and now steady. Tears still collected in the corners of her eyes, now out of melancholy and longing rather than panic and dread. Minutes passed when neither of them said anything.

“…I miss them a lot. Armin, Sasha, everyone. Even Eren, after everything.” 

Jean winced at the last name, but he understood. He missed them all as well, even the suicidal block despite everything he had done to hurt them. “Me too.”

She sighed, voice small and laced with sorrow. “It gets harder and harder to remember them. Sometimes I can’t even picture their faces anymore…that only makes it worse.”

 _Harder and harder to remember them._ He knew what she meant. That painful realization that their image would slowly decay from the mind, withering away despite everything they do to hold on to those last painful memories. Their faces became less defined, vaguer, details about the tilt of their eyes, the curve of their nose, their lips in a smile reduced to a collection of colors and shapes. But Jean also knew there was always a way to preserve their image, to keep them intact… Although afraid of making himself so vulnerable, so soft despite his life as a soldier, watching her so pained over something he knew he could help ease had him abandoning all prior resolve and embarrassment. He knew what he had to do.

He slid his arm off her form, gently pushing her from his chest so that she looked up at him, worry cracking through her despair. “I…I think I can help,” he offered, briefly unsure of himself. She paused before giving a small, skeptical nod.

“…Okay.”

Jean slithered from the bed, reaching over to flick on the gas lamp, turning the knob just so that the room was filled with a warm glow where the moonlight didn’t reach. Bare feet tip-toed across the cool wood floor, finding his desk and sliding open the drawer beneath, hands searching through until his fingers slid across leather-bound book. He pulled it out, closing the drawer and returning to the side of the bed, where Mikasa had sat up, tears on pause as she watched him with curiosity. She pushed her body across the mattress so that she was against the wall, allowing Jean to slip underneath the covers, sitting so that his upper back was against the headboard and his legs were splayed out, knocking his knees against hers, while his arms clutched the book. 

Fingers clammy and brain clouded by something entirely separate from the alcohol, Jean set the leather on his knees, flipping open the cover so that the first, blank page was visible to Mikasa, who now recognized it as a sort of sketchbook. 

“Jean… what is this?”

He gave a small smile pointed at the item, running his fingers across the rough paper. “It’s something I’ve used to avoid forgetting…to remember everyone.” He flipped the page over, revealing to her white sheets filled with lines of graphite pencil forming detailed picture of the row of barracks from their days as cadets in the training valley, the edges of the wood straight and precise, shapes of the trees natural and meticulous. 

Mikasa’s eyes widened, immediately recognizing the landscape and buildings. “Is that –” He nodded his head, letting her scoot closer to him, intently examining the page. She was so absorbed, amazed by the work, the faint glow of the lamp casting dark shadows across her face, leaving the drying rivers of tears on her skin to shine lightly. “Did you draw that?” He nodded again, flipping the page.

This scene was from the dining hall, the same night he had gotten into the first of many altercations with Eren, as well as the first time he had laid eyes on the girl next to him. He pushed away that latter thought, sparing himself the embarrassment at the recollection. Jean could remember going back to the barracks frustrated by their encounter, especially the fact that she had run off with Yeager, leaving him seething in his bed, unable to sleep, so he pulled out the sketchbook and illustrated what he could remember from the bustling night. Connie, Sasha, Ymir, and Historia all sat at one table, chattering away in the drawing, while at the next were the forms of Marco, Armin, Eren (who he had drawn intentionally scowling), and Mikasa (who was not present at the table, but he had drawn in regardless, using the opportunity to pencil in long dark locks before they were cut away). 

“I remember this…the first night in the cadets. Also your first fight with Eren,” Mikasa whispered, finger dancing across the page to trace the outlines. Jean sighed having predicted that she would bring their antics up. 

“Yeah…I miss when we fought over such stupid shit. Mikasa nodded, and Jean tentatively flipped the pages, skipping over irrelevant rough sketches or scattered notes ranting about his life, finally settling on a portrait of Marco from one night they had been looking up at the stars. He could vividly remember sketching the drawing the day after he had found Marco’s half-eaten body in Trost. When the commotion had finally died down, Jean had sealed himself in a room, angrily drawing his best friend’s likeness, tears dripping down onto the parchment to form circular splatters that were still visible, demanding to know why they had taken him away. Learning about the truth of his death only made it worse, knowing that it was Marco’s intelligence and bad luck that had led him to death. 

“Is that Marco?” Mikasa asked. She had not been too friendly with the kind-hearted boy, but she distinctly recognized his warm eyes and the scatter of freckles across his cheeks. 

“Yeah…it is,” Jean whispered, taking a moment to pause and recollect his thoughts. He could feel that she wanted to ask more, to offer him some comfort, but this was about her, not him. Either way, he did not feel like releasing those thoughts in his mind – last time it had ended in violence. 

He flipped the page again, revealing a smiling picture of Armin, the day they had returned from the battle against Reiner and Bertholdt, after Eren had first activated the mysterious power of the coordinate. 

Mikasa pulled a sharp inhale into her lungs, eyes immediately welling with tears as she recognized the image. Armin had been so beautifully captured, that even without color it was like seeing him again, reliving those distant memories. A bandage was wrapped around his forehead, creating tangles and cowlicks in his blonde hair. His teeth were on display in an awkward smile that carried into his eyes, as if he were relieved by the fact that they had survived the massacre. Despite the lack of color, she could tell that his eyes were meant to be blue, the lines giving them a beautiful shine that conveyed his dreams of seeing the outside world, filled with hope and determination. Mikasa was in full blown sobs again, unsure whether they were from the happiness of being able to remember his face outside of his death or in sorrow that these memories of happiness were long gone. Her fingers absent mindedly traced the lines of his face, searching for his presence beneath the paper. 

Jean could only watch her cry, moved by how much the drawing had influenced her. He could not say he was unaffected by the image either – so relieved that he had survived and learned that Armin had defended him, Jean immediately drew his face, as a thanks and a record of how lucky he was to have friends like him. Seeing her tears, especially knowing that she had witnessed his death, shot grief down his spine, eyes softening at her form. He freed a hand from the book to wrap it around her, coaxing her slowly downward. Unresisting through her tears, Mikasa let him guide her so that her head was in his lap, still able to see the tilted sketchbook at his knees. She cried softly into his pants, tears running horizontally across her cheeks and into the soft cotton clothing. The hand that had led her down found itself resting against her head, threading through her hair gently in an attempt to soothe away her tears. 

He flipped the pages again, encountering the bodies of Connie, Sasha, and Floch, dressed in the formal uniforms from the day they had been awarded the medals by the queen. The next page was of Eren and Connie, goofing around at the dinner table, drinks spilling across the wooden table, Levi’s dark form shrouded in the background. The image elicited a tiny laugh from her lips that he relished, silently relieved that his sketches were bringing something other than sadness.  
The next drawing was of when they had finally reached the ocean. Jean had been utterly stunned by the big, blue mass of water, amazed by how impossible it had seemed mere weeks ago. It was beautiful, encapsulating, and he immediately wanted to capture it on a page, even more so with his friends shocked with that same amazement. The pad of Mikasa’s finger ran across the page, skating across the various forms. Armin was front-and-center, cradling his beloved seashell between his hands, a smile plastered on his face. Connie and Sasha were rolling around in the water, fighting, while Levi was dragging Hange from the shore with a worried expression. Eren was in the distance, shin-deep in the water, facing away as he gazed into the horizon, hidden in his thoughts. Her finger finally fell over her own body. At first, she didn’t recognize it as herself. The figure was awkwardly hopping through the water, too occupied with carrying her boots to help her find balance. But the most unrecognizable feature was not the absence of her usual coordination, but rather the genuine smile on her lips. She could not remember smiling a lot after her parents had been killed, but the moment she saw how happy Armin was, that they had finally achieved his dream, his elatedness mirrored in her own expression, delighting her. It was then that she realized how stupid she had been to support Armin and Eren’s dreams without truly _supporting_ them. Yes, she would have done anything to help them, but deep down she did not believe they would ever come true – she was satisfied with the thought of helping them find their happiness, not the mysterious body of salt water. But it had all changed when they had finally reached the edges of the outside world, when she felt the cool wetness on her skin, the sand beneath her toes, the salt on her tongue. Looking at the drawing of her own face, filled with an abnormal smile, solidified her understand. 

Jean said nothing at all, silent in his observation above her, still sliding his fingers between her hair, softly scraping into her scalp, gently flipping the pages of his own remarkable drawings. She then began to understand how amazing he was, as well. Not just his technical artistic talent, which he had kept so carefully hidden, but his ability to capture the emotions, to etch the feelings of those moments into a page, sealing intangible memories into the tangible, making them permanent rather than fleeting. Yet, out of everything, she was most astonished by how willing he was to share this sheltered part of him, how easily he allowed himself to be exposed, to let her in to such private things. Above all, she was indebted. Grateful could not describe the emotion she felt after being able to remember their faces again, to relight the fading embers in her conscious. She knew that he had lost just as much as she had, and that these drawings could equally splay him open for damage as they could have been helping him as they had her. Her fingers looped around his forearm, giving him a reassuring squeeze as he thumbed through the pages, hoping that he understood her message. _Thank you. I’m here._ The fingers against her scalp paused for a moment before resuming, sliding down her temple to graze her cheek as if saying _I know_. 

He was unaware of how much time had passed as she laid silently cradled in his lap. Her tears had stopped, but he could still feel the weight of her soul, of the battles dying down in her head, against his thighs. Continuing to turn pages, they were confronted with a kaleidoscope of memories – the arrival of the giant ships of the Anti-Marleyan volunteers, the unique clothing of the Hizuru representatives, the construction of the locomotive rails, and finally the night in Marley before Eren had gone rogue. Jean paused on the last two, remembering in vivid detail how important they were to him, eyes of a storm of chaos. He discovered that he had unknowingly devoted more detail to Mikasa than he had intended to. In the locomotive scene, care had been taken into drawing the muscles peaking beneath her clothing (she had stunned them by carrying five iron rails with no strain at all), the flush in her cheeks from the sunset, and especially the endearing messy ponytail she had grown out, secured at the back of her head. The second scene took on an almost embarrassing admiration of her form. When they had sailed on the boat, finally crossing the boundary into the true outside world, he had found himself looking at her between conversations, watching the wind whip through her short locks, threatening to blow of her hat as she gazed out into the sea. Jean for a moment panicked, realizing that it the drawing made his feelings blatantly evident, or at least suspicious. But when he looked down, he found Mikasa’s eyes closed, face relaxed and skin stained with only the bare remains of her tears, puffs of her warm breath skating over the leg of his pants. His own eyes were bleary from tiredness and surely the consequences of the drinking, which would only be exacerbated by a lack of sleep. He had no mind to carry her to her bed, too exhausted to even move, so he closed the sketchbook shut, sealing away those memories until next time, and set the leather onto his nightstand, moving only as much as needed so not to disturb her. A hand found a loose pillow, bringing it against his neck so that he was cushioned, leaning against the wood wall. Although sleeping slighting upright wasn’t ideal, he could not bring himself to shove her off his body when she was resting so soundly, a feat that was hard to accomplish after everything she had endured. Instead, he let her warmth relax him as well, the movement of his fingers through her soft, inky hair perpetual, setting a rhythm to pull him into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no fucking words... (don't read this note if you're not caught up with the new manga chapter)
> 
> Never would I have thought to see the day. God. I miss Jean so much... I have so much hope that Isayama will pull something and let him turn back... Connie too... please, Isayama. You have hurt me too many times. That chapter was absolutely HEARTBREAKING, from everyone getting titanized to Mikasa decapitation Eren. I know I ship Jeankasa, but those panels of their AU or whatever in the mountains made me so sad... it's pretty evident that he loves her. On the bright side, it would make for some very cute cottage core domestic fanfic, and on the bright dark side, Eren might be dead and Jean might be able to swoop in (*sobs*). I have no clue what the ending is going to be at this point... all I know is it will be an utter mind fuck. My personal theory is Mikahisu centered... another sad part about the chapter was how much hate Mikasa was getting online. Like please. Why is she the most hated character in the fandom? I don't see how people can be okay with Eren's genocide but draw the line at her pecking him goodbye after he died. Anyways.
> 
> This chapter is fucking long. I think 10k words, and I still have to edit the end but I was so exhausted and sad that I had to post now. So here's a bunch of fluff. Like a bunch. Like a lot. Especially at the end. Hurt/Comfort tag for a reason. Next few chapters, fuckit. Might reward yall with some smut. Idk. I'm too upset. 
> 
> Now that my rant is over, thank you all again for the reads and reviews! 200 kudos whooooo! Not totally satisfied with the chapter, it's kind of filler, but the end is kind of cute. I also still need to edit it tho oops. Happy reading!
> 
> Warning: there's drinking and descriptions of a panic attack


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have to apologize immediately. I was fully intending on uploading a new chapter this weekend, but some unfortunate events occurred. First, I had to travel back home from college for spring break. Then I realized I forgot my laptop charger at home. Then, after I had finally found my old Mac at my house and I was prepared to write all of Sunday, I got sick. Like really really sick to the point where I couldn't even try to be productive and THINK about what I was going to write. Luckily I am all better now and was able to write for a good portion of yesterday.
> 
> In good news, this chapter is super long! Also, I finally got vaccinated for COVID! I highly recommend everyone try to do so through CVS, it was not too hard to find a spot. In addition, I think I've FINALLY stop getting hate from anon users in the comments. It seemed that removing the Erehisu tag was the way to go... which doesn't make any sense to me because this is a Jeankasa fic. What the fuck does Erehisu have to do with me? They were literally together in this story? Anyways...
> 
> I know I said maybe smut this chapter, but it doesn't feel natural yet. Jeankasa is destined to slowburn, but trust me, the payoff will be worth it. Instead, I offer you horny jealous Jean and OOC horny drunk Mikasa? It's def not in the realm of her character but I imagine that she would be kind of the opposite of herself if she was drunk. But nevertheless, a lot of internal realizations for Jean. Stay tuned for more, and thank you once again for all the wonderful comments and kudos! This fic is on the third page of the Jeankasa tag! That's incredible:)
> 
> *PS: I will make up the late update with two updates this week:) prob friday? we'll see. unless life throws me for another loop

Chapter 8

The next week passed by normally, or at least, what could be expected for their standard of “normal”.

Mikasa remained the designated muscle and labor of the engineering department as they hashed out plans for new ice-burst machinery and technology using innovation from the outside world. In the time she had been there, in particular, they were working to create automobiles, a device the Scouts had observed in awe in their time in Marley. Mikasa could remember the odd contraptions, like horse-drawn carriages without the actual horses, thinking it extraordinary that they would soon be careening through the streets.

Although Mikasa did not initially care to understand the specifics behind her work, preferring to just copy schematics and lug equipment as she was instructed, Rico did not share the same sentiments. She held a firm belief that it was necessary to understand the intrinsic concepts and workings of their projects in order to better perform her responsibilities (although Mikasa could not comprehend how memorizing the scientific basis of an engine helped her better transcribed circles and lines, much less carry heavy prototypes). Nevertheless, she found herself listening to Rico’s advice, motivated by the fact that Armin would have loved to work on such a team, experiencing the new age of technology first hand, even borrowing a book about the physics of steam engines home for late night reading. If nothing, it made achieving sleep slightly easier. 

As indicated by her harshness – or tough love, if Mikasa was to believe her fellow coworkers – Rico did not seem to let up at Mikasa, her only reward for hard work being upgraded to using the better quality graphite so she did not leave the building looking as if she walked through a fire. More importantly, though, Rico did not explain how she ended up a captain always in the midst of battle to an engineering leader with a limp and a slightly subpar knowledge in mathematics. Something was off. But she didn’t know what. Mikasa, despite her wondering, was equally as resistant to engaging in conversation with the captain, preferring the easy-going engineers and planners who sparked up discourse on their breaks or during tedious assignments. Even if Mikasa was not the most talkative individual, her comrades did not mind talking _at_ her, clearly passionate about their work -- it reminded her greatly of Armin and Hange. 

From what Mikasa had heard from Jean, things were getting at least slightly easier for him. It appeared that Weilman was more interested in the reaction he got out of his victims, and as soon as Jean learned to keep a straight face and the sweat stains on his shirt shrunk, the commander lost interest, letting him off more easily as he became numb to the suffering. He overall was less overworked and upgraded to better assignments that required more than a pair of working legs to relay messages. 

Unfortunately, the same did not apply at home.

Mikasa wasn’t exactly sure what Jean had done to anger his mother so badly. Last week, she had woken up next to Jean for the second time, although with her head on his lap, curled against him like a sleepy cat. Once again, she had left promptly, extremely embarrassed but more than that thankful that he had provided her the comfort she needed once again. Memories of the sketchbook he had shown her flooded into her mind, remembering the incredible depictions that brought back not only images of the past but the feelings and emotions as well -- ones that had reduced her to tears at his side. Somehow, however, she felt less and less ashamed that she had cried in his presence. He never judged her, never told her to suck it up, never told her to ignore her own feelings. It made her resistant to ever leave his side, made her want to crawl back to him every time she couldn’t sleep or remembered something tragic. But her reluctance to force herself onto him, her guilt at using him and burdening him always dissuaded her. She had nothing to offer him but her broken, shattered life. Would that ever be enough?

Ripping herself from sorrowful thoughts, she then tiptoed downstairs to greet Mrs. Kirtstein and help her prepare breakfast, suspecting nothing out of place of her usual, upbeat mood until Jean made his way down the steps and a darkness saturated with bloodlust descended upon the kitchen -- one that rivaled even her own and Levi’s. She had quickly left Mikasa with a tight-lipped smile, giving an excuse as she pulled her son aside into a back room from which muffled yells and arguments emerged before a tired-looking Jean and an indignant Elise returned. The rest of that morning for Mikasa consisted of relaxation, tea, and trying an assortment of pastries that Elise had prepared with the help (more so slave work) of Jean, kneading the dough between his rounds of scrubbing the floor and cleaning the windows. It seemed that his mother had a inexhaustible tank of kindness in her soul needing to be expelled, this time onto Mikasa, while her reserve of anger had been switched on as a punishment for her son, one that only ended a few days ago when he had woken up early to make his mother breakfast in bed.

Jean refused to tell Mikasa even a sliver of detail that would explain his mother’s behavior, muttering only phrases involving words like “mistake” and “regret.” She eventually had to find out from one of his blonde coworkers after he had asked if Jean had recovered well enough, to which she had responded with confusion and then he informed her that her friend had a rather unfortunate experience with beer and whiskey the Friday prior. Despite the secretiveness, Mikasa’s relationship with Jean she thought to be better than ever, further expanding on its foundation of mutual trust. Neither of them brought up the sketchbook incident, burying yet another shared, raw experience underneath them, making her internal conflict of accepting that she relied on him much easier. Although her sleepless nights and avoiding nightmares returned, she did not find the courage to crawl back into his bed, grateful for the satisfactory status of their relationship as it was and ashamed to admit she considered swiping his sketchbook. It scared her, however, that their relationship would decompose quickly, whether from him finding better friendship in his light-hearted comrades or his realization that she was only a burden after she left for her week-long trip to Hizuru tomorrow.

She wasn’t sure whether the trip warranted the nerves it had accumulated within her, besides the prospects it had for her and Jean. It was not as if she were unprepared or underqualified – Rico had stacked her high with paperwork, designs, sketches, and diagrams that she was to bring with her, and there was not much expected of her beside basic clarifications and her mere presence as a bargaining chip. However, there was always the knowledge that the Yeagerists were still abundant out past the former walls, and that she would once again have to rely on her lineage, albeit a different side of it, to survive. But perhaps the most unnerving aspect was that she was to go alone, that she was to abandon the fleeting haven she had found within the Kirstein home, through Elise’s warm, motherly hugs and Jean’s friendly, grounding smile, forced yet again to vacate the individual choices she was only halfway into garnering the courage into making. She loved to see them happy, as if their joy rubbed off onto her, especially after she had watched Jean so distraught immediately after they had returned to Paradis. It once again made her wonder if they were better off without her. 

A small part of her also was saddened to leave work at the Garrison. Although Rico was a pain in her ass, the rest of the engineers had an endearing awkwardness about them. Even now, in the most minuscule of tasks, as she was helping them calculate a variety of alloy strengths, she was treated with respect and above all, as an equal. Only after she had joined this department had she realized that her life had been full of a dichotomy – on one hand, the military had regarded her as a mere weapon, a lethal tool of destruction with the added bonus of having political connections, while her comrades revered her in an odd, frightened way, like she was a higher being they were supposed to be afraid of. However, in the world of engineering, strength was no means of determining rank, intelligence and productivity favored instead. It was refreshing, and once she had unknowingly broken through the thin layer of hesitance they held for her, Mikasa found herself quite enjoying her time. She hated to admit it, but even Rico’s insistence that she learn about the mechanics helped her better appreciate the otherwise meaningless numbers and drawings she was forced to work with, including the ice-burst converter she was currently assigned to complete.

“Mikasa!” called a sweet voice belonging to a young girl named Marla, a lower-level mechanic who used to work on lift repair, switching to the division after the wall equipment was made obsolete. 

Mikasa turned, finishing with her last transcription, finding the flustered blonde approach her desk with a pile of files, her small frame practically hidden, bending under their weight. She came closer, setting the papers on the desk and letting out a panting breath. “So sorry, I hate to ask, but I was wondering if you would deliver these to infrastructure? They need the road and paving plans to accommodate the automobiles.” she gave the Ackerman a meek smile. “They’re just so heavy, and it’s all the way across headquarters.”

Nodding, Mikasa stood up, scooping the papers in her arms, having no problem assisting the girl who had been the first to welcome her into the division. “No problem. Third floor, right?” The girl gave an even brighter smile and nodded.

“Thank you so much! Oh, and before I forget, Walter and I wanted to ask you if you would go out with us tonight. We know it’s your last night before the trip, and we wanted to give a little bit of thanks. Nothing fancy, just a nice bar with some decent food and even better drinks.” She winked, adding to the uncharacteristic nature of her request – Mikasa would have pegged Walter, the humorous, slightly overweight mathematician as a drinker, but not this sweet girl.

Nevertheless, after Jean’s mishappening with overindulgence the weekend prior, she was hesitant to accept such an offer, especially when she was not much of a drinker and did not wish to wake up early the next day and travel hundreds of miles all while nursing a hangover. She hated to disappoint, but it was only reasonable. “Er, sorry, Marla. I’m not sure that I can, to be honest. I don’t drink much, and I have an early morning tomorrow.”

The blonde’s lips dipped into a tiny frown before they shot up again, waving off her refusal. “Don’t worry about it, perhaps when you get back.” Mikasa returned a tightlipped grin before heading to the exit of their office, unhindered by the stacks of documents in her arms. Right as she had kicked open the wooden door, Marla’s voice rang from behind. “Oh, don’t forget! That top document goes to strategies, not transport! Make sure to give it to them.” Mikasa threw a nod in affirmation over her shoulder before setting a path down the hall toward her destination. 

After the long trek up several flights of stairs, Mikasa finally reached her infrastructure file room, not bothering to knock as she pushed through the office door, startled when she saw two men in what should be an otherwise empty space, almost dropping the files.

“Oh, sorry. Just dropping off these documents for your division.”

The two men nodded, both dressed slightly rumpled as if they had just gotten back from a smoke break, and were attempting to hide from work, leaning against adjacent desks. “No problem,” said one of the men, a middle-aged man with graying hair. “Ackerman, is it?” She nodded, knowing that her reputation preceded her, slightly unnerved by his amused stare. “Alright, just set those down over there.” He pointed at a desk in the corner. 

She waddled over to said location, plopping down the load onto the wood with a heavy thunk before giving a curt nod and departing, not wishing to further endure their stares on her back. Retreating down the hall, she only realized a quarter way back to her office space that she had forgotten to get that top document to strategies as Marla had noted. Rushing back, she quickly made her way to the office once again, hand grasping the knob and intending to push in until she heard the conversation of the men behind the door.

“Yeah, looked about as cold as I’ve heard she and the Ackerman are, that Levi fellow.”

The other man grunted. “Ruthless, how much killing they did back then a just a month ago over at the port…and don’t get me started Kenny the Ripper. Rumor has it he was an Ackerman too. Maybe the Yeagerists were on to something about punishing them, as much as they are a shitty group of good-for-nothings.”

“Dogs of the military if you ask me… The bitch is lucky she’s an Oriental. If they don’t kill them off might as well use them… ”

A chuckle resonated from behind the wood. “Better to keep them on a leash and muzzle them.” Another laugh joined the first.

Mikasa’s hand slipped from the metal of the knob, falling dejected at her side. Forgetting about the file she had returned for, she headed back down the hall, steps dragging in disappointment, head tilted to stare at her feet as they dragged across the floor. Was that what they thought of her, even now? She was reminded terribly of her conversation with Eren in the restaurant, about his words concerning her lineage.

_“A clan who lost their true selves, created only to follow orders. In other words, slaves.”_

She knew that there were still people that held that sentiment, believing that she and Levi were too volatile without strong ties to an institution to control them, but she also thought that at least during her time in the Garrison the soldiers would respect her, or a least learn to tolerate her. Did the engineers feel that way about her as well? Did they whisper about her viciousness, her demeanor, that she was a threat as soon as Mikasa turned around? Did Jean think that as well? Did he sleep lightly in his own home, worried one night she would snap and rampage through the house?

 _No. No. Not Jean. Please not Jean._ She couldn’t bare that. Anyone but him. 

She pushed back the tears threatening to spill in her eyes. Since when was she so affected by the words of mere soldiers, ones she could squash under her boot? Her thoughts paused for a moment, face blaunching when she realized that was precisely the reason they felt that way for her. _Fuck_. Perhaps that was another reason why the government was so adamant about maintaining her ties to Hizuru… If she was not to be controlled by the Scouts or Garrison, her own clan members would surely be responsible for keeping her in check under the guise of family. It then dawned on her that she would probably be finding this out first hand the next day when she arrived at the port, once again in their clutches…

Thoughts ricocheted through her head like stray bullets, each more burdensome than the last. This would not be how she would end the first half of her stay, not like this. She would not return back to Mrs. Kirstein, who cared for her so much despite no need to do so, with a dejected and hurt mood, she would not make the woman think she had done something wrong. No, she needed to forget what those men had said, she needed to relax and do anything to ignore and forget and distract rather than confront, just as she always did, but _how?_

Mikasa finally arrived back at the engineering office space, pushing open the door to find Marla sorting through models, and the idea dawned on her. 

“Marla, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll go with you.”

Jean found himself heading to that same bar for a second Friday in a row, convinced yet again by Leon and Elias, even a scrawny boy who was far too young to drink named Martin tagging along. This time, however, he made a firm commitment not to drink, and he had previously informed his mother to expect him late, not wanting to endure her bloodlust for another week, especially without Mikasa in the house to dull down her meanness. 

He sighed, running a hand through his hair as they approached the dark tavern, an hour later than usual since they had to stay back and look for a file that had gotten misplaced earlier that day, finding it in an office on the third floor. The thought of Mikasa reminded him once again that she was to leave for a week long trip the next morning. His mother had practically shed tears at the notion, sorrowed with the loss of such a “kind girl” who was “more help around the house in two weeks than Jean was his whole life.” He could not lie and say he wouldn’t miss her presence, and not just for the shield she provided against his mother. They had finally grown to a comfortable proximity that was impossible in the past due to her concern for Eren and Armin. Perhaps that made him selfish, or a terrible person to relish the fact that she was finally recognizing him thanks to the loss of her closest friends, but it was self-pity all the same. Yet he knew that only the negative part of him believed that. The positive part, whether delusional or not, believed that she actually needed him, relied on him, that those late nights of talking with her head on his lap and his fingers in her hair meant something to her, anything at all. He was even ashamed to admit every night of the past week he had stayed up an hour later than usual, hoping that she would come keep him company but too scared to go ask her himself. 

They stepped through the entrance, greeted with the overwhelming stench of alcohol and din of conversation, the space much busier than it had been only last week. Leon and Elias were ahead of him, already searching for a table before they paused. 

“Hey, isn’t that Walter? The big guy over in the corner?”

“Oh, you’re right! And that little blonde from his division!”

The names were not familiar to Jean, but he looked over all the same, deciding they must be some soldiers from headquarters they knew from the green jackets and rose emblems draped across the back of their chairs. Their table was filled with food and several empty glasses, his eyes skidding across the face of the petite blonde and the burly brunette man, falling to the back of the head of the third person, the black, cropped hair oddly familiar ---

The faceless person suddenly turned at Leon’s voice, whipping around to reveal a familiar face of grey eyes and dark bangs, usually pallid skin flushed a deep red, most likely sourced from the various empty glasses. Jean, on the other hand, paled.

“Hey, Kirtstein, isn’t that your friend?”

He didn’t even respond, instead making a beeline to the table, Mikasa’s eyes lighting up as he approached, giving an uncharacteristic toothy grin as she recognized him. “Jeannn…” she slurred, gaze glossed over.

 _Fuck._ She was more drunk that he thought, the scent of liquor leeching through her skin. He had seen the girl drunk only once before in Marley, and even then she had instinctually sipped on only a bit of wine, quickly realizing her low tolerance and sacrificing her fun in order to remain lucid. Now, however, all her restraints had fallen, evidenced by the huge smiles and fumbling limbs that were absurdly out of place on her form. He let out a groan. 

“Mikasa, why are you here? How much have you had to drink?”

She briefly frowned at his serious tone, before quickly wiping it away and pressing a hand to the shoulder to the blonde beside her. “Marla invited me, y’know, for some fun before I leave. And not _that_ much. Three. Four. Enough.” Her words earned a sigh from him as he glanced over to the blonde, whose expression was full of guilt.

“Sorry…” she murmured, clearly much less drunk than her comrade, given only the slight tinge of her face. “Mikasa is very competitive, even when drinking it seems… we couldn’t really stop her.”

He rubbed his forehead with a hand, closing his eyes to collect his thoughts. Well, at least he was here now, able to escort her back to the house and keep her from trouble. Normally, he would surely have been confident in her ability to defend herself, but the added alcohol in her system muted those instincts of her, making her vulnerable and in a way, more normal. Jean reached to pull a chair out to sit down, but Mikasa suddenly yanked it from his hands, frown plastered on her expression. 

“Go with your friends. These are mine. I don’t need a babysitter right now.” 

_Yes you do._ He wanted to stay, but instead relinquished his hold, giving the blonde and man a glance to confirm they would look out for her in the time being. Reluctantly, he accepted her demand, deciding that her could keep in her check across the room while letting her enjoy the stress-relief she deserved. Plus, he’d be a hypocrite to deny her fun after his ministrations the week before. “Alright. But get me when you want to leave.”

She gave him an enchanting smile that he wanted to draw, plush lips framing pearly teeth, pinkness dancing across her cheekbones, before he remembered that it was artificial, then suddenly wanting one day to extract it from her again, without the alcohol, one day. He turned away to meet his friends before he could conjure anymore irrational thoughts, joining the group and sitting on the opposite side of the tavern. 

Instead of ordering a pint or any alcoholic beverage, he requested a black tea, earning him an odd look from the bartender, but he needed something to calm him from leaping up and sticking by her side. He settled on watching her intently in between sips, halfheartedly engaging in conversation with the others at his table, who surely noticed his disconnect but chose to ignore it in favor of getting drunk and rowdy.

By the time he had finished his tea, the worry had disappeared from his gut. Mikasa seemed to be fine, simply nibbling on flaky pastries while talking to her friends. She even gave full-bodied laughs, tilting her head back and releasing a profound, bell-like sound that rang from across the tavern and made him very jealous -- jealous that he was not the one who had earned those laughs. Jean suddenly found it better to look away from her rather than watch her every movement, wishing to keep that ill-conceived emotion out of his mind. He fell farther into the discourse at the table, his glances at her growing fewer as he told himself that she was capable of handling a little inebriation by herself. Perhaps an hour later, after several light-hearted conversations about work, the latest knews, and weekend plans, a sharp tap to the shoulder pulled Jean away, turning to find Elias. 

“Jean, not to alarm you, but…” he tilted his head backwards, indicating toward the table where the engineers sat. 

Jean quickly searched for the group, finding everything normal except for the presence of a lanky, dark-haired civilian with an easy-going smile seated awfully close to Mikasa, posture relaxed and expression much too flirtatious. Jean could suddenly no longer deny that previous jealousy, a dark heat rising in his gut as he observed the man, eyes lingering on his hand as it slid near Mikasa’s elbow and he leaned in to mutter something into her ear so that she could hear it over the commotion. Even worse was the laugh she let out when he pulled away, completely oblivious to his intentions and still suffering from a severely clouded judgement. Jean also quickly deduced that the dark red liquid in Mikasa’s hands was surely a drink the man had bought her, already half empty. He was practically fuming. The sly tilt of the man’s eyes and the hand that was now grazing her forearm spoke of nothing but ill intentions. 

A hand clasping his shoulder brought him back to reality. “Go do something about it,” Elias muttered close to his ear, pulling away to let him handle it. 

He quickly made a decision that no, he would not let their conversation continue, standing from his seat and heading over under the pretense that it was late and she needed to get back for her early morning trip. However, the closer he got, the more his resolve crumbled, especially as he noticed that the man was rather attractive and Jean realized that he had no idea what he was going to say. Tell him to fuck off? Demand that he leave? Grab Mikasa by the arm and pull her to the door? No, definitely not that last one if he wanted to keep his limbs intact. He was three-quarters of the way across at that point, unconsciously slowing down as he filtered his brain for some excuse, only stopping when a loud yell and clattering glass echoed in the room, right from where Mikasa and the man were seated.

“ARGH! Fucking bitch!”

Jean’s eyes widened, taking in the scene as the rest of the tavern fell into a shocked silence: the man who had been leisurely sitting in the chair was now pressed flat across the table on his stomach, knocking over cups and dishes. His gaze slid up to find Mikasa pinning him down, face enraged and eyes vicious as she gripped his arms into his shoulder blades. Jean momentarily paused in awe before rushing over, prying her hands from the body as yells from waiters and bartenders radiated in the background. 

“Hey, hey, Mikasa!” he took her hands in his, pulling her away so that she would look at him, face still oddly penetrated with bloodlust and drunkenness. “What happened?”

Her expression broke, finally taking in that Jean was there, her hands finding his. “He tried to touch my ass,” she said bluntly, as if she hadn’t even registered that fact and had toppled him on instinct. 

Jean was promptly filled with rage at the thought of him touching her, so lewdly much less hurting her. His hands dropped from hers, balling into tight fists as he fought off the desire to slam him back into the table. However, his need to make a decision was cut at the loud complaints of the workers, their hands shoving through the murmuring onlookers as they found the culprits of the commotion, demanding that they leave. 

Before they knew it, Mikasa and Jean were kicked from the bar onto the street, the door shutting behind them, punished despite the fact that Mikasa had done nothing wrong. Once again, his hands gripped his temples, frustrated and concerned and above all angry about what the man had done, only finding relief in the fact that Mikasa had been able to defend herself. Another moment passed before the resentment finally disappeared and he looked over to his companion.

Mikasa was, to put it lightly, swaying. Her face was still red, but now tinged with green as she attempted to keep herself upright by clutching the wall, making Jean realize that their trek home would not be a pleasant one. 

“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, hand pressing on her back to keep her straight.

She was unable to make eye contact with him, gaze falling guiltily to the ground like a kicked puppy. “Uhm… It’s kind of hard to walk… dizzy.” 

Releasing what must have been the hundredth exasperated sigh that night, he searched her gaze from beneath her bangs, finding a solution that was not ideal, but necessary. He took a step in front of her, turning his back toward the wall and sinking into a crouch. 

“Alright, c’mon.”

He looked over his shoulder when only silence responded, finding a frustrated and confused expression on her pretty face. “Mikasa. Get on.” Finally realizing what he meant, her grey orbs widened, filling her face with something akin to childhood delight, an abnormal and most certainly out of place expression to her usually stoicism. She readily hopped onto his back, pressing close against him and wrapping her arms around his neck as his elbows looped to hold her thighs tightly, holding her in place as he stood back up.

A childish squeak erupted from behind him, Mikasa unconsciously tightening around his neck painfully as she was lifted to a new height off the ground. “Mikasa,” he wheezed, and she quickly released her grip and muttered an apology. 

Suddenly finding the desire to joke with her, he gave a smirk as he took a step forward. “Wow, Mikasa. My mother’s cooking must have been good, you’re getting heavier.” This earned him a sharp kick to the thigh with the back of her heel, one he knew he deserved. He didn’t tell her, however, that he was glad she was gaining back some of the weight she had lost in her mourning.

“Don’t say that to a lady,” she scoffed, before relaxing back into his hold.

“Last I checked, ladies don’t go slamming people into tables. Nor do they drink in taverns.” Another kick, lighter than the first, erupted pain through his knee, threatening to make them stumble. 

“He deserved it. And besides, I am a lady, I’m an Azumabito. Therefore, everything I do must be ladylike,” she declared, smugness tinging her words. Jean laughed, finding her unusual nature endearing and unable to argue with that sound logic.

“Perhaps you’re right.” She gave a hum of approval at his concession, resting the side of her face in his hair. He hated to provoke anything else out of her, but his lips opened again, needing to find an answer. “Mikasa,” he said quietly, voice almost muffled by the sound of his footsteps and the rising croak of crickets. “You never drink, much less get drunk, so… why?”

She stiffened, then nuzzled her face further into his scalp, like she was trying to hide from him. “It’s nothing,” she whispered, sounding oddly sober.

“It’s not nothing. I know it wasn’t just for fun.”

She sighed, a moment passing before she muttered something inaudible into his hair. 

“What?” he asked, growing slightly frustrated.

“Some soldiers were saying bad things. About the Ackermans,” she finally declared, loud enough for him to hear. Jean paused, eyebrows furrowing, while Mikasa tried to hide even more, upset that she had unleashed a can of worms. 

“What things?”

“It’s fine, Jean. I’m over it.”

His grip on her thighs tightened. “It’s not fine, Mikasa. What did they say.” She moved her face to nuzzle into his neck, as if she was seeking some warmth and a safe space, her next words close to his ear.

“Typical stuff. We’re monsters. Dogs of the military. Need to be kept on a leash,” she whispered, as if saying the words out loud somehow made them true.

Silent rage crawled through his skin. Soldiers like that wish they were a quarter of the woman Mikasa was, of the man Levi was. They were people, not dogs, not beasts, not monsters, they were people that loved and lived and above all lost because their incredible strength and skill made them outlast everyone else even if they didn’t want to. Their words were unacceptable.

“Mikasa,” his tone was low, serious. “You know that’s not true.”

She closed her eyes, stopping tears that threatened to escape. “But Eren said ---”

“I don’t give a fuck about what Eren said.” His grip tightened on her thighs painfully, forcing her to leave her self-pity and listen to him. “Nothing they say is true. I know. We all know. Do you think everyone would have stuck by you for so long, trusted you with their life, if you were truly a monster?” She was silent, still hidden and considering his statement. “Even if you were, I would still stick by you. Even if it makes me a fool.” His final words were all but a whisper on the night breeze. Words she heard loud and clear. 

“Okay. I believe you,” she murmured into his neck, drops of tears finally slipping down her cheek into his coat, though these were not of grief nor sadness, but gratitude at how much kindness he showed her, how wonderful he was without knowing it. They wordlessly agreed to move on from the topic, choosing to walk in silence rather than further unpack the conversation. Mikasa felt herself engulfed once again in the haze from the alcohol, returning from the fleeting moment of sobriety. She moved her head to his other shoulder, tucking face first into the crook of his neck, warm breath caressing skin so sensually it made his steps falter and forced a dry swallow. Mikasa, however, did not seem to notice his reaction, nudging herself further, even pressing her lips into the skin of his throat before pulling a long inhale into her nose.

“You smell nice…” she whispered, once again sniffing lightly where his hair met his neck. Jean was immediately very embarrassed, especially since they were in public, redness matching her own creeping up his cheeks. Clearly, the wine she had consumed from the man was making a rather late introduction, but he was grateful for a moment that she was not thinking of those terrible assumptions by the soldiers.

“We use the same soap, Mikasa…” he muttered, feeling her tiny smile press into his neck.

“It’s not the soap… you just smell nice. You’re just nice, Jean.”

His heart sped up too quickly for him to remember to respond. It was as if everything was backwards with her after a few sips of alcohol. If she sheltered her emotions normally, they were fully on display now, her tongue turning loose as soon as the liquor engulfed it, making her say things she perhaps didn’t mean. He didn’t notice, however, that the girl on his back was intently staring at his profile through her bangs, tracing the curve of his nose and lips, the lengths of his lashes, with her gaze, wondering how long she had ignored something so blatantly beautiful right in front of her eyes. 

They continued down the lamp-lit street wordlessly, Mikasa still nestled in his shoulder in comfortable silence, while Jean’s was rather uncomfortable, allowing his mind to be penetrated by thoughts of her, more so than usual. This went on for so long that he thought she had fallen asleep, if it wasn’t for a large crowd of people in the shopping district that caught her attention with their bustle. She peered up, mimicking Jean’s own curiosity as to why people so readily gathered around a small food seller he had not seen before, the paint on its sign new and fresh. Mikasa, however, quickly realized the source of the commotion when she spotted children leaving the counter with hands cradling brown cones with a globe of white sitting on top. 

She gripped his shoulders in exhilaration, face leaving its spot on his neck to better admire what she had discovered. “Jean! Do you remember those?”

He nodded, also having figured out the cause of the excitement. _Ice cream_ , it had been called. They had tried it almost a year ago, in Marley, and Jean had to admit he was quite compelled by the rich, sweet flavor and contrasting coldness. It seemed that the recipe had made its way back to the island, destined to be a popular remnant of the outside world’s innovation, a gruesome reminder of what had been. 

“Can we get some, Jean?” she asked sweetly, and he could imagine the pout on her face without seeing it, an image that almost made him laugh. Knowing better to give in than deprive of her of the dessert she had enjoyed, he sighed, loosening his grip and allowing her to slide down onto her feet. He turned, giving her a stern look before leaning down and stopping only inches away from her face. 

“Alright, we can. You stay here. Don’t move. I’ll be back.” She gave him a grateful smile, confirming she would heed his words, while Jean made his way to stand in the line.

A while later, he returned with two frigid cones in hand, one flavored with honey and vanilla, while the other with strawberries. He found Mikasa standing in the same place at the street lamp, the light casting dark shadows over her otherwise bored expression, which immediately lit up when she spotted him returning with the sweets in hand. Her delight almost made him forget his annoyance and confusion regarding her drunkenness, and he handed her the white cone wordlessly before grabbing her hand and pulling her down the street, away from the commotion. 

He sat her down at the corner of a street, on the cobbled curve, thinking that letting them sit, eat, and rest before he picked her back up to be the best course of action for both her stomach and his legs. Glancing over, he found that Mikasa had already begun greedily eating the dessert after staring it down with delighted eyes, spurring him to try his own. His tongue met the cool, soft solid, flooded with the taste of fresh strawberries and cream. It was delicious. The texture did not compare to the one they had tried before, but nothing beat freshly picked strawberries from within Wall Maria, and he almost thought it worth the ridiculous price.

“Good?” he heard her ask, turning from devouring the sweetness to find Mikasa’s amused gaze on his. He swallowed the cream and nodded, pushing out his cone toward her after quickly remembering that she loved strawberries and wanting her to enjoy it herself.

“Here, try it.”

She peered up at him through her lashes again, ignoring her own ice cream in favor of his. Jean startled, however, when her approaching hand gripped the wrist holding the cone rather than the cone itself. Gaze still locked on his, she pulled his hand closer to her face, giving a terribly uncharacteristic, mischievous smile before darting out a tongue and licking a sensual stripe up the ice cream. 

Jean thought he would die on the spot. He had fully intended for her to take the cone then return it to him. Never this. Never this borderline naughty darkness in her eyes. Never her hand on his wrist, never her tongue caressing the pink cream, indulging in its sweetness. A straight shot of heat settled into his core, illicitly imagining what other things she could do with her tongue --- a thought threatening to cause problems later. What had been in that wine?

The silence was thick as her tongue retreated between her lips. After that initial taste, her efforts became much more tame; her hand was still on his wrist, but her licks were tiny, devoid of sex and lust like they had been before, almost making him think he had imagined it in a desire--driven haze, but her eyes were on his. She finally pulled away, simultaneously bringing his mind out of the abyss. That was until he fell back in once he spotted the streak of pink that had stuck to the edge of her lip.

Before he could register his actions, still compelled by explicit thoughts from before, Jean reached out his free hand, cupping her chin as her eyes widened, giving her some revenge for her previous flirtations. His thumb rubbed across her skin, catching the smear of ice cream that had missed her lips. Rather than pull away and leave it at that, however, Jean pushed his thumb upward, forward, breaking the seam of her lips and pushing the digit into the wet cavern of her mouth, returning the dessert to its intended destination.

Her eyes startled but never left his, even in the moment that she did nothing, making Jean regret his action in embarrassment. He swallowed those thoughts, however, when she accepted his thumb into her mouth and he felt her clean the pad of his finger with her tongue, sliding it across the skin even after all of the ice cream had surely been removed. If Jean had been greatly affected before, he was entirely hopeless now. His heart went from pounding to completely silent from shock when she had sucked his thumb, eyes still haunted by the lusty darkness, spurred on by alcohol, making Jean decide that he desperately needed to give her wine more often.

He pulled the finger from her lips with a wet pop, allowing his hand to retreat from her skin. “Good?” he whispered. She nodded, face ablaze with something entirely different from alcohol, but nonetheless powerful. A silent heat engulfed both of them as they quickly finished their treats -- finding that the dessert had melted and seeped onto their fingers while they were distracted --- and Mikasa was picked back up onto Jean’s back, even warmer after than short-lived moment. He almost thought the Ackerman, or himself, crazy as he began to notice and focus on her every move behind him. Little did he know he was not imagining her sultry actions: her heavy breaths placed strategically close to his ear, her lips pressing too close to his pulse, her thighs wrapping tight around his waist. However, the teasing slowly died down, getting lazier as they made the rest of the trip back. Jean was suddenly grateful for the recent cardio and lifting he had been forced to undergo at work, as the journey was decently long and although Mikasa was slender, she was packed tight with muscles and rather tall. The burning in his thighs was easy to forget with her light teasing, but that had all but disappeared, and the pain in his muscles was building up rapidly.

They finally made it back to the house, and Jean awkwardly pulled out his keys to unlock the front door, deciding not to let her down just yet for his own secret enjoyment and also because she had not made the effort to get off on her own. He stepped into the dark foyer, hit with a sense of deja vu but significantly less worried than the week prior knowing that his mom was resting comfortably in her own bed. Mikasa, however, was still wrapped around his back.

“Mikasa?” he whispered, slightly shaking her thighs in an attempt to call her attention. No response followed, only the slight roll of her head on his shoulder that let him fully feel the light, steady breaths escaping her lips onto his skin -- she was fully asleep.

His initial reaction was to groan, annoyed that she had used him as her personal portable sleeping space, and that he would have to choose between waking her up and carrying her up the stairs. But those feelings faded quickly, replaced by a deep warmth in his heart. Mikasa had always had issues with sleeping peacefully; even when they were cadets, Sasha told him about her abnormal habits, making him wonder how her skills were unaffected. Perhaps it was a genetic trait, as Levi was also afflicted with the same permanent darkness under his eyes, which would also explain their similar grumpiness. However, this was the third time Mikasa had fallen asleep next to him, without issue. It made him happy that he was able to provide something for her, after the years of motivation and inspiration she gave to him. 

He didn’t want to presume anything on her behalf, but he truly believed she needed him. Never in his life would he have thought those words would apply to Mikasa Ackerman, but the girl in his arms was a separate being, so different from the lethal soldier he had met in his youth. After the war, she had shown him that deep down she was weak. She was broken, utterly lost in a world that had come to a standstill, so desperate for peace but so inclined to war that when it came it left her empty. But Jean didn’t care about that, because she was not defined by her weakness. No, she was defined by the very things she had lost in their decade long war, she was defined by her quiet gentleness, her awkward conversations, her fondness of sweets, her appreciation of his art. He realized that he had taken a liking to an imposter when he was twelve, not Mikasa Ackerman, only a small part of her. But falling in love with the real Mikasa Ackerman was far too easy, far too quickly. Yet he found himself uncaring about Eren, about the past, only focused on the fact that she _needed_ him, whether she said it or not, and that was okay. She had spent too much time, like him, pretending to be someone they were not because it was convenient, necessary. Now that it was over, didn’t they deserve to be accepted as they are, damaged or not?

Jean had not even realized that he had carried them up the stairs, deciding not to wake her up. The floorboards whined under their combined weight as he found her bedroom, pushing it open. It was a sparse space, neat and organized, with only a few books on her bedside out of place. Luggage was packed in the corner for her trip in the morning, the bags zipped up and tidy. He set her down on the slightly rumbled bed, opting to peel off her jacket and shoes but not daring to try to strip her further nor shove a toothbrush in her mouth. Placing her under the covers, he tucked her in, pausing when she adjusted herself in her sleep, lying in a fetal position with her elbows tucked into her side. Yet again, childish innocence permeated at her seems, endearing but sorrowful as he was reminded of what she had lost. Jean found that he could not bring himself to leave her bedside, his ass still planted on the mattress next to her. His hand crawled upwards to cup her cheek, smoothing at the pink skin and watching her enjoy a little moment of peace, eyelashes curling over her cheeks, her nose occasionally twitching, her lips parted to let out tiny exhales. 

It was moments later that he understood that yes, they did deserve acceptance. They had no obligation to remake themselves as heroes or enemies, complying to the whims of the government or Yeagerists, because they were neither. They were only teenagers, after all, on the cusp of adulthood, plagued by unnatural woes of war and chaos and death. Was it so selfish to want to be welcomed without adjustments, accepted as they are and not as they were made out to be? No. It wasn’t. And Jean had found someone who understood that in its entirety, even if she didn’t realize it. 

When he had introduced her to the other part of his life, his mother, his sensitivity, his pacifism, she had exuded no judgement. At first he believed it to be indifference, but he could now understand that wasn’t the case. That was the side that needed him, not the responsible squad leader, not the smart soldier, not the outwardly arrogant teen. How could he have brushed off her gentle smiles at his interactions with his mother, her grateful tears when he attempted to bring her peace? He didn’t want more than that, he didn’t want to deserve more than her. He wanted to see her smile, he wanted to bring her dreamless sleep, he wanted to laugh at her drunkenness, he wanted to see her feisty and angry. He wanted _her_ , and he wanted her to want _him_.

Jean’s hand slipped from her face, and he made his way back to his room knowing that he was falling desperately in love with Mikasa Ackerman.


End file.
